


In the Blur of the Stars

by Elialys



Series: Trickling Down the Hourglass [3]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, Loss of Identity, Pete's World (Doctor Who), Post-Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, i need a tag for domestic angst, it's a thing with my doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-05-12 09:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19225939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elialys/pseuds/Elialys
Summary: Until his metacrisis, his role and identity were quite clear and well defined: he was the Doctor in his TARDIS, travelling the universe, saving the day on occasion, but for the most part, just having a jolly good time of it.Truth is, he’s got no more TARDIS. No more direct access to the universe. And as much as he’d like to convince himself otherwise, he’s not quite the Doctor anymore either.Not quite Time Lord, not quite human.Now that he’s been stripped of all these things that made him…him, what does that make him, exactly?





	1. I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I'm fairly certain I have become unstoppable. Also, I have to laugh at myself for saying in my previous story that I did not intend for this series to be linear. Sure sure, said the very rigid person who loves order and things to happen in a very linear fashion. Anyway. This is linear. As in, this starts very shortly after [Calluses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18287873) and [Homecoming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19140991). It could even be the next day; I wouldn't deny it. I would advise you read them first if you haven't, although I guess this stands on its own, as long as you accept the fact that Tentoo and Rose got together in Norway.
> 
> Not putting a chapter cap on that one for now, but there will be a few, especially since I am overworked at the moment, so I'm going to *try* and keep them short, and hopefully update every weekend.
> 
> This is all about Tentoo having a bit of an identity crisis as he and Rose try settling down in Pete's world. There will be angst, but a great deal of love, too.
> 
> Enjoy!

The Doctor once told Rose he could feel the turn of the Earth beneath their feet. That he could feel the entire planet hurtling through space at incredible speed, while they clang to its surface through gravity alone.

It’s gone now; his awareness of the Earth. Of its rotation and revolution, of the constant, almost imperceptible shifts of its plates upon that gargantuan layer of soft, sweltering rocks. Like so many other things he took for granted, it was traded down when he was reborn in this body.

He can’t say he misses it, not in a real, tangible way…just like he can’t say he misses his ability to anticipate and interpret timelines. Not in the way he misses that bond he nurtured for centuries with his TARDIS. _That_ wound is real, and raw, throbbing with loss every time he allows himself to feel it – which is not often.

The rest…the rest is prickly statics in the background. 

He remembers being able to feel all these things, but he cannot quite remember how they felt, the way no one can ever truly recall a specific emotion, not in its intricate intensity. It’s like a word on the tip of the tongue, just out of reach. Just close enough to cause frustration to flare at this inability to remember something that used to be so innate.

There are moments, though, quiet moments, when what he feels is quite enough. Not the spin of the Earth, nor its relentless dance around a burning star, but the warmth of her upon his skin; her long exhales sweeping across his epidermis, stimulating every nerve beneath; the tangible, corporeal weight of her keeping him tethered to this planet’s crust better than gravity ever could.

In those moments, the statics scatter away like stardust caught in a cosmic wind, and he feels at peace.

For a time, at least.

**I.**

The Doctor hoped that this would be easier, this time around.

Not that he had any reason to think so; the circumstances weren’t different enough to have much of an impact on the overall situation. And yet, it was with some hope in his singular heart that they set off for the shopping centre.

Unsurprisingly, this isn’t easier at all.

“You’re overthinking it,” Rose was telling him, not three minutes ago. “Just…pick a few things, yeah?”

He’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to just ‘pick a few things’, though.

With every clothes rack he goes through, every mannequin he stares at, he feels his muscles constricting a little more, his whole frame slowly locking up. Rose being Rose, she tries being supportive at first, making suggestions in that overly enthusiastic manner of hers…until they spot a nearby mother using that exact same tone with a surly, lanky looking teenager, at which point she stops talking altogether. She goes as far as pretending to be interested in a completely different set of dress shirts further down the aisle, giving him some space to scowl in silence.

Considering how this day started, the Doctor should have known things were going to go downhill; realistically, there was _no way_ it could get better after waking up with most of his limbs entangled with Rose’s, her warm breath upon his skin, her soft fingers in his hair, her caress so gentle and slow he almost _purred_ from the sensation.

She’d been the talkative one, that morning, planning their entire day out loud. _You need clothes_ , she’d said. _We’ll do that first_. She’d smoothly transitioned into saying they needed to go food shopping, too, as she doubted her kitchen held any edible food. Her transition to talking about going to Torchwood wasn’t as smooth, but it fit the pattern of her thought sharing; she talked about needing to check in with her team, also planning on getting him in touch with the right people who would be able to provide him with identification papers, as well as discuss ‘what to do next’.

While Rose planned their whole day out, all the Doctor could really think about was how much he wanted to make love to her again, listening to every word she said, yet not being _entirely_ focused on their meaning either. He couldn’t be blamed. His body had been ready from the moment he woke up – another physiological reaction he’d learned was quite typical in human males – and those fingers of hers in his hair were both a blessing and a sin.

He’d let her talk, familiar with what her mind was doing, unable to break free from something that obviously had become a habit these past few years. She had learned to keep herself thinking, to keep herself moving, to keep herself busy. Having something to do lessened the risks of downtime, of being left alone with your own head, with nothing better to do but think about all these things you couldn’t afford to think about.

He’d done that a lot, after losing her – although he tended to be more on the impulsive side, not one to plan much. He remembered her being like that, too, back then, but that was before she became someone in charge; she’d obviously learned to set clear steps and proper goals that a team could follow.

The Doctor had slowly made his intentions clear as she talked, though, in small shifts of his body upon the mattress and against hers…until there was no way she could ignore the heat of him, pinned as they were, his face pressed to her neck, a hand upon her breast.

She’d been happy to indulge him and fully take part in some lazy and entirely satisfying love making, unable to form much in terms of coherent phrases after that, even if a dim part of his brain suspected she knew he was deflecting.

He felt truly blessed for a while, lost in the feel of her, with her fingers digging in his flesh and her breath against his ear, chasing away every word she’d said and any thought of ‘what’s next.’

No, really. This day was doomed to go downhill from there.

In the end, the Doctor loses patience with his inability to make a decision. He’s spotted the ‘suits’ section of the store almost as soon as they came in; even now, he regularly glances that way, but he purposefully avoids getting any closer. Whatever outfit he’s going to settle with for this brand new body in this brand new world and this brand new life, he highly doubts it will be suits.

Too many associations.

He ends up grabbing a few jeans at random, only checking for size and not much else, being as swift and reluctant in his choice of shirts and underwear. Arms full of items he doesn’t feel like wearing at all, he finds her looking at jumpers.

“Just pick a couple so we can get out of here,” he tells her, sounding as demotivated and annoyed by the whole thing as he feels.

Rose glances at the heap of clothes in his arms, before glancing up at his face. She merely shrugs, picking two plain jumpers he inwardly (and reluctantly) admits will probably fit him well. They walk to the check-out line in complete silence; she knows him well enough not to attempt conversation.

As they wait for their turn, his gaze stops on another dummy, advertising a rather casual look.

“What?” Rose asks.

He doesn’t realise he’s been frowning until he feels his face relaxing, looking away from the dummy to look at her instead. “You don’t wear those much anymore, do you?”

He’s only seen her in a couple of different outfits since they’ve reunited, but it’s enough for him to have noted a definite change in her style. Which is not unusual, and actually quite healthy, considering how many years have passed, but he knows how fond she’d been of this particular type of clothing.

It’s her turn to frown as she looks at the mannequin. “The hoodies?” Rose asks, and he nods. “I guess not,” she says. “Grew out of them, I suppose? Had to start dressing like an adult at some point, yeah?”

He’s not fooled by her own brand of deflection; she’s way too relieved to be walking to the counter to deposit their items, welcoming the distraction. He watches as the clerk puts the clothes into a couple of bags, before accepting Rose’s credit card to pay for his items, a sight that takes his mood down another notch.

By the time they’ve made it to another store – a _supermarket_ , Rose catches him staring at the tellies on display, and she suspects he might be tempted to start using his screwdriver on one of them just to create some kind of diversion.

The Doctor looks absolutely out of place, walking alongside her as she pushes her trolley.

She’s well aware that he’s not enjoying this much, if at all, his body language not exactly subtle. They _need_ food, though, and like it or not, this is something he’s going to have to get used to.

Still, she tries and makes this as quick and painless as possible, going for her usual favourites – which involves a lot of pasta, potatoes, and a fair amount of frozen dishes. His frown gets more pronounced with each item she adds to the pile.

“Go on, then,” she eventually sighs, turning to face him, leaning against the trolley with one hand on her hip. “Just let it out before you make your brain explode.”

“I’m just…waiting for the fresh food to make it in there, that’s all,” he says, a bit too cheekily.

She peers at him. “Why, are you planning on cooking? ‘cause we both know that’s not my thing. I can barely make toast without setting the toaster on fire.”

“Yes, the TARDIS’ kitchen can attest to that,” he says without thinking, and both their bodies briefly tense at this casual mention and use of present tense. He shrugs, then, trying to dissipate the tension, both his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. “I’ll cook,” he says. When she blinks at him, he gives a sharp tilt of his head. “You’re literally paying for everything I require, right now. The least I can do is cook for us.”

She hears and senses the strain in him, notes the way his eyes shift when he mentioned her paying for the things he needs. Something she doesn’t mind doing in the slightest, but she knows there’s no point in her telling him that.

She lets go of the trolley, bringing a hand up to his prickly cheek, encouraging him to look at her. “Hey…” she says softly, and he reluctantly brings his gaze back to hers. “This is…temporary,” she tells him. “Me paying for everything, I mean. Once you’re settled, with a proper job and all, you’ll earn your own money.”

He looks away again, taking a sharp intake of breath, and she feels the muscles of his jaw clenching beneath her hand. “Yeah,” he breathes out, before offering her a smile that is not remotely convincing. “I know. That’s fine. I’m fine. Fresh food, then?”

She feels his desire to move and not be _still_ , knows what it costs him, not to step away from her. He stays put anyway.

As a thank you for his efforts, also hoping it might help him relax, she lets her fingers trail from his jaw to his hair, lightly grazing his scalp as she pulls his head down to hers. He responds at once, one arm coming around her waist to press her securely to him, while his other hand comes up to her face in a familiar move, warm palm upon even warmer skin.

While she intended for this to be nothing more than a loving peck, she doesn’t exactly fight him when he deepens the kiss, holding her to him so tightly, as if still afraid she might disappear, every inch of her responding to his intensity.

When someone coughs rather loudly further down the aisle, she reluctantly pushes herself off him, just enough to glance in the direction of the noise, meeting the disapproving glare of an older woman.

Rose might have offered her an apologetic smile and put an end to this public display of affection, but she’s too distracted by the way he’s already buried his face into the crook of her neck and tightened both his arms around her. There’s nothing sexual at all in his embrace, though.

There is _need_ , and confusion, as if his entire body was silently begging her to help him figure this out, whatever ‘this’ might be.

She decides to ignore the disgruntled customer, focusing fully on him instead, responding in kind with her arms around him, her fingers once more caressing his hair as soothingly as she knows how.

It isn’t enough to dissipate the tension from his frame.

“Let’s call it a day and go home,” she eventually whispers in his ear. “Torchwood can wait.”

The Doctor only tightens his hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ridiculously excited to write more of this story and to share it with you; it's pretty much all plotted and ready to go at this point. All I need now is for my summer break to start already so I can write things :'(
> 
> Tentoo will have to face a trip to Torchwood next, and even more terrifying, an evening with Jackie Tyler and the rest of the family.
> 
> Feedback is always loved and appreciated!


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the interest you've shown in this story already, I hope you stick around for the ride!

**II.**

Crepes, the Doctor decides, are exactly what Rose needs.

The fact that she’s still sound asleep and has not expressed any need whatsoever in quite a few hours is irrelevant. For one thing, crepes make perfect sense in terms of nutritional values. He also suspects his human taste buds will find them rather delicious.

Rose doesn’t only need crepes: she _deserves_ crepes. 

He’s hoping that finding him up and about, focused and good-spirited, will prove to her that he’s moved passed whatever got a hold of him the day before. Not that she’s complained about his behaviour, quite the opposite; she seemed more concerned than bothered by his mood swings and subsequent pain, while he wants to cringe every time he thinks about the way he acted.

Their day _had_ improved for a while. They’d gone back to her place long enough to put things away, before going back out. They’d spent some time walking through her neighbourhood, hand in hand, eventually stepping into a pub to eat. Carrying on with this day’s odd pattern, Rose did most of the talking, sharing with him everything she could think about in regards to this universe, including politics and technological advancements, down to some celebrity gossip.

It may have been enough to distract him from his previous unease, it had done very little to soothe the headache growing steadily within his skull. What started as a low throbbing somewhere in the centre of his brain back in the supermarket had spread through what felt like the entirety of his nervous system, until even his limbs began aching.

His recollection of what happened next is somewhat blurry. She’d helped him change into something more comfortable, too in pain by then to care about the fact that she was made to pamper him again. They’d quietly discussed whether or not he should take painkillers, before agreeing he’d better avoid drugs of any kind until they knew more about his new physiology. They’d settled in the dark of her room instead, her soft fingers in his hair somehow managing to lull him to sleep.

When he woke up, both his migraine and overall apprehension were gone.

Rose wasn’t.

He spent some time watching her sleep, before he extracted himself from her warmth, indulging into a long shower. By the time he was exiting the bathroom, his mind was set on crepes.

He’s just added milk to the mix when Rose’s phone, which he’d shamelessly borrowed to look up online recipes, begins to vibrate. He stares at the device, reading the three letters now flashing on the screen.

‘ _MUM’_

He debates letting the call go to voicemail – his last ‘phone conversation’ with Jackie from a few days ago hadn’t exactly been pleasant. It might be important, though. Hadn’t he stolen her phone, he suspects the device’s vibration would have stirred her from sleep.

He picks up the phone and accepts the call. “Hello?”

The sound on the other side of the line is not _silence_. It’s closer to…loud breathing?

“Jackie?” He tries with a frown.

More breathing, and then: “ _You’re not Rose_.”

The voice isn’t Jackie’s at all, the words high pitched, and slightly inarticulate. “Tony?” He corrects himself.

“ _Yes?_ ”

This is not how he pictured his first contact with the littlest of the Tylers would go, but there is no backing out of it, now.

“Your sister is sleeping. Would you like me to wake her up for you?”

More noises and loud breathing. “ _Mum says I can’t wake up Rose ‘cause she get cranky_.”

“That she does,” the Doctor concurs, the phone now stuck between his ear and shoulder, back to mixing the ingredients together. “I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you, though.”

From the next sounds that reach him, he is fairly certain the child might be trying to eat the phone. “ _Who’re you?_ ”

“I’m the Doctor,” he answers, just as another voice chimes in, more distant.

“ _Who you’re talking to, sweetheart? Oh just give me the phone_.”

After the loudest set of noises yet, Tony being quite reluctant to give up the device, Jackie’s voice rings loud and clear.

“ _Who the hell is this?_ ”

“Hello, Jackie,” he responds in his most amicable tone.

“ _Oh. It’s you_ ,” she says.

“Indeed.”

“ _Rose’s sleeping?_ ”

“Soundly.”

Jackie sighs. “ _Well, get her to give us a call whenever she drags herself out of bed, will you? She’s not talked to Tony in days, he’s feeling all kind of neglected over here. Any idea what’s keeping her so busy she’s got no time left for her own family?_ ”

“Not a clue, I’m afraid.”

“ _’course not. Tell you what, you two come over for tea, today. Not too late, though, Tony goes to bed just past seven. He really misses his sister, you know. Even before you two started going at it, he barely got to see her these past few weeks, with all her dimension jumping and whatnot. You won’t mind sharing her with her three year old brother for a couple hours now, will you?”_

“Uhm,” is his only answer.

“ _That’s settled, then. Just tell her to send me a text when you’re on your way, alright?”_ And she hangs up.

The Doctor stares at the device, not entirely sure what just happened.

He almost _jumps_ at the feel of two arms slipping across his chest on either side of his waist, although the most reasonable part of his brain very well knows whose arms they are. He’s yet to get used to being so unaware of his surroundings in this body of his, incapable of keeping track of what’s going on around him whenever he focuses on something.

Going from being able to feel a planet move beneath his feet to not even noticing another person entering the room…well.

Talk about a downgrade.

“Sorry,” Rose speaks upon his back, right in that hollow space between his shoulder blades; her arms are securely wrapped around him, her warm, soft body pressed up against his. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

He’s fully aware of her, now, the sensation enough to unknot his muscles, unable to remain tense when her mere presence and proximity cause his insides to stir in anticipation and longing. He’s tempted to turn around, always craving the sight of her, but he’s reluctant to move much.

“Don’t worry,” he says quietly, one of his arms coming to cover hers upon his chest, intertwining their fingers and giving hers a squeeze, feeling her burrowing her cheek into his shirt. “You’ve just missed a call from your brother. According to your mum, he’s feeling abandoned. She’s requesting our presence for dinner, today.”

“Ugh, sorry,” she repeats, tightening her arms around him. “I’ll call her back and get us out of it, if you want.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s alright,” he says. “I know you miss them. Got to do this at some point, anyway, eh?”

“Mmm…” she agrees, the sound vibrating through his frame, and his desire stirs deep and low, now, a reaction he has very little control over.

He cannot think of a situation where he would not want her, but his body is particularly responsive whenever she encircles him like this, having come to associate the press of her upon his back with rather pleasurable sensations. The fact that one of her hands is now moving across his chest is not helping, her nails slowly raking his shirt.

“You’re feeling better,” she says, and it’s not a question. There is a knowing, teasing note in her voice.

“Oh yes,” he says, already breathless, swallowing back a groan when she lets her hand trail down over the front of his trousers, which have already started to bulge.

The spark of pleasure that sizzles through his body at this light touch sets him into motion. He turns into her arms, both his hands coming up to her face and sinking into her hair to get a firm yet gentle hold on it, barely getting a glimpse of her lovely features before he’s pulling her up into a fervent kiss, feeling her own hands grabbing fistful of his shirt, bunching up the fabric against his sides as she sways into him in that most delicious way of hers.

They have to break away, eventually, oxygen becoming a necessity. They breathe heavily, forehead to forehead, hands still clutching, hips pinned together.

“I was making you crepes,” the Doctor feels the need to tell her in a slightly despondent tone. He spoke the words hoarsely upon her parted lips, as if to prove he does have other things in mind beside constantly needing to touch her and love her but _blimey_ , he struggles to remember any of them when she’s pressed up against him like that.

“Yeah?” She breathes out, and he’s too close to see her smile, but he hears it in her voice, feels it against his lips. “Banana flavoured?”

The sound he lets out is somewhere between a laugh and a moan as she rolls into him again, the odd noise muffled as he recaptures her lips. He is _dazed_ by the reality of this, of her, absolutely flabbergasted by it all.

He knows his blood to be overflowing with endorphins again, his head and lungs filled to the brim with that lovely, heady scent of hers, while his one heart swells up with deep, genuine affection.

In moments like this one, when she takes over everything so ruthlessly, he cannot understand nor remember why he would ever get upset, about anything.

The crepes, he decides, will have to wait.

…

Rose’s ‘no touching in public’ policy is back in action.

While occasional slipups in supermarkets are apparently permitted, any kind of physical contact within her work building is a big _no-no_.

She doesn’t even need to say anything, her body language telling enough. A shift occurs the moment they come up from the parking garage and step out of the elevator.

Gone is his best friend, who only an hour ago was throwing her head back in glee, her laughter echoing off her kitchen’s walls while his heart grew a few more sizes, as affected by the vision before him as he was by the simple fact that she found his lame puns so amusing.

(“ _That wannabe pancake dumped you for a blueberry tart? Really, my dear, I don’t know what you ever saw in that crepe anyway.”_ )

Gone is his lover, who some time before that was pressing soft, loving kisses upon his flushed cheekbones and stubbled jaw, her fingers once more curled so tightly in his damp hair, as they basked in yet another afterglow.

As soon as they step into Torchwood, she’s not Rose anymore. She’s _Agent Tyler_.

She stands tall with her head held high as she walks briskly through what is nothing more than a labyrinth to the Doctor, but appears to be familiar ground to her. Watching her navigate her way through that building is…odd. Not the oddest thing he’s experienced this past week alone, and definitely not the oddest one out of his nine hundred plus years of memories, but odd nonetheless.

He doesn’t doubt a word of what she’s been telling him, about how difficult it’s been for her to settle in this universe, or how hard she’s tried leaving it. But as he watches her interacting with these people, with these strangers who all glance or stare at him with varying degrees of curious looks, there’s no denying the fact that she’s made a name for herself, here.

She’s respected, and from what he can hear and sense, well-liked.

She’s greeted wherever they go, no one passing her without at least nodding in acknowledgement, quite a few of her colleagues taking the time to give her a few praising words on her successful mission. The first time someone actually _salutes_ her, she blushes hard and grimaces in mild embarrassment, quietly telling him to ‘shut up’ under her breath even though he’s not said a word, which only causes his small smile to grow.

Whether she likes to admit it or not, she’s settled enough these past few years to have become an integral part of this place. While he feels genuine admiration for her accomplishments, being faced with this immutable proof that she _belongs_ here only makes him that much more aware of how out-of-place he is himself, slightly out of sync with this entire universe, a universe in which Rose leads, and he dutifully follows.

And truly, he would follow her anywhere, wherever she might go, trusting her with his life and everything he is; the _following_ is not an issue in the slightest. But this massive shift in their dynamic makes finding any kind of sturdy footing in this unfamiliar place even more difficult, unable to rely on centuries of experiences and habits.

She tries her best to include him, taking the time to introduce him to those who stop to greet them, always pointing out that he helped a great deal in putting an end to the stars going out whenever someone commends her.

Those unwarranted praises do little to soothe his growing unease, however, imagining how those conversations would go if she were to be honest and say: ‘This is the Doctor, he commits genocide on occasions and enjoys banana flavoured food.’

His mood, which had been quite good and jolly up until now, is quickly plummeting.

The fact of the matter is…he’s an anomaly.

Rose does not immediately realise that he’s slipping down _that_ slope again, too distracted by her own nerves. She’s noticed his renewed tension, not to mention his silence, but she assumed it was due to being here, in a Torchwood building, surrounded by unfamiliar people in an unfamiliar place.

By the time they make it to Dr. Agnes Layston’s office, however, his renewed surliness has become hard to ignore, even if there isn’t much she can do about it. Both his hands are in the pockets of his jeans, and he decidedly avoids meeting her gaze every time she glances at him, limiting her opportunities for any sort of non-verbal communication.

Rose _dreads_ this upcoming meeting.

Unbeknown to the Doctor, she had quite a lengthy conversation with Pete the previous day, after he’d fallen asleep. She doesn’t like keeping things from him, but her gut tells her he’s better off not knowing how much he’s being discussed, at the moment.

She and her dad had agreed that the best way forward was to go through proper regulations instead of bypassing everything with a few signatures from Pete. They’d learned that the hard way four years ago, when Pete and Jacqueline Tyler announced they had a twenty-one year old daughter who was absolutely legitimate, look at all that paperwork that said so!

It may only have taken a few days for Rose to officially ‘exist' in this universe, it took a lot longer than that for her to exist in the eyes of the people who lived in it. If she can use her own mistakes to make this less complicated than it already is for the Doctor…Rose has to try.

Hence the complete transparency with the people in Torchwood, and the mandatory meeting with the person in charge of all things regarding ‘alien regulation’.

As head of her department, Dr. Layston is known for being quite abrupt and rough around the edges, a quality Rose has always appreciated, as she despises the hypocrisy that most people adopt in the work place.

She’s not sure how this particular brand of honesty is going to mix with the Doctor’s…personality, though.

After the initial, formal introductions, they’ve barely taken a seat across from her that Dr. Layston is going straight to the point. “Allow me to be blunt here, but I’m not entirely sure how we should go about this…situation.”

Rose  frowns at the older woman. “What d’you mean?”

“The fact is, we’ve been able to build a rather extensive database on alien species these past few years, but save for what you have told us, no one has ever reported anything about Time Lords or the planet Gallifrey.”

“Yes, I know,” Rose says, tersely. “We’ve already discussed this.”

They had. At _length._

She’d pulled quite a few hair off her head when she first started working here. It’d not been easy, adjusting to all these things that were fundamentally different from her universe, while dealing with very human people who were reluctant to accept her knowledge of certain things without being given any physical proof.

“It shouldn’t matter,” the Doctor speaks, then. “I’m not a Time Lord anymore, not exactly. This body is more human than alien.”

His voice, although a bit curt, is almost amicable. It still makes Rose’s skin crawl, aware of how _insincere_ he is being in that moment, still unable or unwilling to look her way.

“So we’ve been told,” Dr. Layston carries on, not in her friendliest of tones, and Rose begins to glower. “To be honest, if you ever are to work for us as it’s been suggested, this might make you somewhat of a liability.”

Rose keeps herself from cringing at this poor choice of word, the emotion swiftly replaced by sheer annoyance and a sudden desire to shut her up.

“May I ask in what sense?” Although the Doctor sounds absolutely polite, there is a note of warning in his tone, now.

“You’re unpredictable,” she explains. “In every sense of the word. That much we gathered from some of your tales, Agent Tyler, with a behaviour that might be too…volatile for the kind of work we do, here. We don’t know what to expect on a physical level either. Which is why my first suggestion is to have you take part in a series of tests, so that we can determine what you are, exactly.”

“He’s not a _what_ ,” Rose interjects at once, a tad too loudly, maybe, her face flushed in aggravation. “And the hell with you doing tests on him, he’s not a lab rat.”

“Rose.”

She turns her blazing eyes on him, meeting his gaze for the first time since they’ve entered the room.

He looks surprisingly composed, if not a bit…tired. His lips pull a little in a small, dismissive smile, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, as if to tell her not to get herself in trouble on his behalf.

“It’s fine,” he says instead, quietly. “I’m quite curious to find out more about my own physiology, to be honest. I do need to know what my limitations are in this body, if I’m to do anything…useful.”

Rose feels herself deflating at the defeatist tone he used, and by the words themselves; hearing him have so little confidence in his capabilities in this new incarnation of his is nothing short of heart-breaking.

The Doctor averts his eyes before she does.

“I apologise if I sound callous,” Dr. Layston says, sounding honest enough, but Rose struggles with looking at her again. “Doing those tests would be in your best interest, Doctor. From what I’ve gathered, your physiology has become significantly different from the one you used to have, hasn’t it? Among other things, we should be looking into your immune system. In any other situations, I would have recommended an immediate quarantine period to avoid exposing you to too many pathogens at once, but it’s been over a week since your…uhm, ‘metacrisis’? You would be dead already if your body wasn’t able to cope with our most common germs.”

“Well,” the Doctor interjects before Rose can, his voice now ringing with barely concealed sarcasm. “I may have recently exposed myself to a rather impressive amount of human germs due to sudden and repeated contact with a native. I can only concur that if _that_ were to kill me indeed, I would not have made it out of Norway.”

The noise that escapes Rose is neither a chuckle nor a snort, a hand already up to her mouth to try and muffle her laughter, which is equally amused, embarrassed, and quite a bit offended. She’s not upset by his comment in the least, aware that he could have said much worse; she’s definitely getting fed up with this conversation, though.

Dr. Layston is peering at them from across her desk, her small, disapproving scowl enough for Rose to know she’s understood his inuendo just fine. She begins nibbling at her thumbnail with a bit of a smirk, feeling like they’re two misbehaving students being scolded at by their unhappy Headmistress – a situation she’s not exactly unfamiliar with.

“All humorous attempts aside,” Dr. Layston resumes, a tad touchy, “you will not be permitted to join our ranks in any capacity until we’ve been assured that you can sustain prolonged physical strain.”

“ _Well_ …” the Doctor says again, so suggestively that he doesn’t need to say anything else at all, letting that one syllable _drag_ , and Rose loses it.

Less than two minutes later, they’re out of the office, having cordially been dismissed.

“I don’t think she likes me,” the Doctor states, a bit too wisely, and Rose, who’s had enough of this place, throws caution to the wind.

She brings both her hands to his scruffy face, soon pulling him down for a quick, affectionate kiss. “I like you,” she says against his lips.

His arms come around her, although they remain looser than she’s come to expect from him. “Bit unwise of you, from the sound of it. I might not be what you’d call ‘a safe investment’ anymore.”

In response to his half-hearted embrace, realising that he’s only trying to be good and not touch her _too_ much in this particular public place of employment, she wraps her arms around his neck and brings him closer, until his forehead is resting against hers.

Despite his easy banter, there is unmistakable tension in his body, his inhales a little too loud, his exhales a bit too heavy. Rose knows he only turned to humour in there in an attempt to protect himself from a conversation that had been quite insensitive and hurtful.

“You’re not a liability,” she tells him softly, her thumb caressing the short hair at the back of his head. 

His breath barely hitches…but it hitches nonetheless, his hold on her tightening at last as his warm breath pools upon her lips.

Rose thinks he’s going to speak, for a moment, _hopes_ he’s going to speak; share some of those thoughts and emotions she almost feels begging to be let out.

He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an absolute ball of stress at the moment, thanks to work, so my solution has been to procrastinate things a little more and hide in this story. If that patterns continues, updates should be rather frequent hahahahaahaha. Off to the the Tyler mansion they go!
> 
> Feedback would be lovely ♥


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't let the fluff fool you.

**III.**

For all of the frustration his bouts of rambling sometimes cause her to feel, Rose is reaching a point where she would gladly take his most random monologue on the advantages and disadvantages of using heated seats in your car – a particular rant he’d been all too happy to delve in earlier today on their way to Torchwood.

The Doctor seems to have lost all desire to speak at the moment, and truthfully, there is only so much conversation filler she can come up with and endure when he’s not being the most responsive. Which is why they spend most of the drive to her parents’ mansion in what would have been a rather uncomfortable silence if she hadn’t turned the radio on.

She knows his muteness is due in part to their less than entirely successful trip to Torchwood; he’s made it implicitly clear that he doesn’t want to talk about it. She also suspects he might be getting nervous about facing her family. There’s not much she can do or say to reassure him, unfortunately. He’s familiar enough with her mother to be able to make his own assumptions, and his interactions with the other two men in her life will be what it will be.

Despite her apprehension at whatever might happen tonight, Rose is almost relieved to enter the Tyler’s property, soon parking in front of the main building. She just started wondering how long they’ll be able to hide in her car when the front doors open, and she sees a blur of blond hair zooming out toward the porch stairs, along with a high pitched screech that vaguely resembles her name.

That’s about when she remembers how much she’s missed that bundle of insane energy, and she finds herself grinning from ear to ear as she swiftly exits the car.

She’s barely stood up that Tony has reached her; she scoops him up with ease as he leaps into her arms, immediately giving her the best kind of toddler hug ever invented in her opinion – his arms and legs tightly wrapped around her upper body, and she squeezes him back just as enthusiastically.

“Hey, littl’ man,” she greets him with a catch in her voice as she sways them on the spot.

Beyond all of the dimension jumping she’d been doing, part of the reason why she’d seen so little of her family these past couple months was because she knew that were she to succeed in her mission, she would never see them again.

That’s the sacrifice she had to make in order to get back to the Doctor. Limiting contact with them had been her desperate attempt to make this easier for everyone involved.

She rejoices in the feel of her brother holding her so tight, soon pressing a loud, resonating kiss upon his chubby cheek, which causes Tony to shriek in delight. He’s squirming in her arms, then, her cue to let him down.

She’s barely freed herself from him than she’s entrapped in a much larger hug, recognising her mother’s scent a mere second before she recognises the feel of her, soon hearing her voice as well, her mum now letting out a stream of mostly unintelligible words. Rose lets her mother hold her as tightly as she herself had just held Tony, although she’s not entirely sure why she’s _this_ relieved to see her, when they’d been together in Norway only days ago.

Speaking of Norway, her mother doesn’t miss a beat; the moment she lets go of Rose, she rushes to the other side of the car, where the Doctor is now standing a bit awkwardly.

“Come here youuuu,” Jackie is now saying, immediately grabbing his face and pulling him down, pressing a hard peck to his lips, in a way she hadn’t been able to do in years. “I did miss you, you lanky thing.” Before he can do more than grimace and wipe at his mouth, she starts patting his scruffy cheeks. “What’s going on there?” She turns to look at Rose, still holding on to the Doctor’s face. “Did his meta-whatsit make him forget how to shave or somethin’?”

“Mum,” Rose almost groans, even as she ruffles her brother’s hair, Tony now clinging to her leg, half hiding behind it. “Leave him alone, all right?”

“Tad territorial, are we?” Jackie says with a suggestive rise of her eyebrow, although she does let go of the Doctor’s face, looking back up at him. “Didn’t mean anything bad by it, you know. Looks good on you, to tell you the truth. So do those jeans, _blimey_.”

“Uhm, thank you?” He says with a smile that looks more like a grimace as Jackie’s eyes scan his body, one of his hands briefly going to the back of his head, a glaring sign of discomfort to Rose.

“Let me introduce you to Tony,” she says, louder than necessary, shaking off her leg a little in an attempt at dislodging her brother, who only tightens his grip.

The Doctor steps away from Jackie, coming  around the car and closer to them, soon peering down at Tony with a smile that looks much more sincere. “Tony and I spoke on the phone already. I guess I’m scarier in person. He didn’t seem that impressed with me this morning.”

“’m not scared,” Tony grumbles against Rose’s leg, having to crank his neck to look up at the Doctor.

“Of course not.” Realising that he probably does look quite tall and impressive to a three year old, he comes down to a crouching position. “If you’re anything like your sister, I’m sure you’re actually very, very brave. Going on adventures, guarding your house, protecting your family…”

Tony nods, eventually leaning forward to whisper loudly in a conspiratorial tone. “Som’time I fight _dragons_.”

“You know what?” The Doctor says in a similar tone. “ _So do I_.”

After that, all trace of Tony’s shyness evaporates. He releases Rose and goes straight for the Doctor, grabbing at his hand. “Come!” He says, pulling energetically.

Even if he’d used every ounce of strength he possessed, there’s no way Tony would have been able to make a full grown man move. And yet, the Doctor looks like he stumbling a little as he stands back up and lets himself be dragged toward the house, glancing back at Rose with a confused look.

“You shouldn't've pretended you'd fought dragons,” she points out with a smirk and a shrug of her shoulders. "He's never gonna let you go, now."

“Rose Tyler,” he calls out, falsely offended, even as he stumbles up the few steps leading to the porch; he’s not really paying attention to where he’s going, Tony still pulling him along. “Are you suggesting I might have been _lying_ to this innocent child? I’ll have you know there are winged creatures on Flagalos III that are absolutely _humongous_ , not to mention the ‘breathing fire’ bit. Those things make fairy-tale dragons look like – ”

But Tony has succeeded in dragging the Doctor through the front door.

“Hasn’t changed much, has he,” her mother comments, and Rose turns to look at her.

“Less than he thinks,” she says, in a voice that sounds gloomier than she intended, causing her mother to frown. “Never mind,” she shakes her head as she starts walking toward the house. “Where’s Dad?”

“Where d’you think?” Jackie rolls her eyes, her way of saying Pete is undoubtedly locked inside his office, on yet another conference call of some kind. “He promised he’d be done by dinner time, though.”

There’s no real animosity in her comments. Pete _is_ a busy man, and a bit of a workaholic, but he more than makes up for it whenever he spends time with them. The next time Rose glances at her mum as they reach the front doors, she finds her looking at her.

 _Scrutinising_ her would be more appropriate, actually.

“What now?” She sighs, coming to a stop.

“Nothin’,” Jackie says, in a tone that doesn’t mean ‘nothing’ at all. “You look healthier, is all. I don’t think I’ve seen this shade of pink on your cheeks since that day you sneaked into my bedroom and snatched my makeup bag.”

“I was _six_ ,” Rose protests. “And I dunno what you’re talking about, I barely wear make-up these days.”

“Kind of what I’m getting at, sweetheart. You’ve got _the glow_.”

Before her mum can turn this into yet another suggestive comment to go along with that smirk, Rose rolls her eyes and steps inside the mansion, just in time to hear her brother’s familiar squealing laughter coming from one of the nearby rooms.

She follows the sound, soon finding herself staring at the Doctor, who is now holding Tony up by his calves, dangling him in the air.

He freezes when he notices Rose watching them.

“This was his idea,” the Doctor feels the need to point out.

“You break it, you replace it,” Jackie casually informs him, having barely glanced into the room before carrying on toward the kitchen.

“Does he break easily?” the Doctor asks Rose, back to playfully swaying Tony this and that, which only leads to more delighted shrieks from her brother.

“Nah,” she shrugs. “Pretty sure he’s insured anyway.”

…

During his first couple of days in this body, the Doctor regularly found himself overwhelmed by the many physical differences he had to get used to, having to relearn how to _feel_ as he was bombarded with new sensations, from the lone beats of his single heart, to the sharp tang of an acidic food dissolving upon his tongue.

A week later, he cannot quite remember what it felt like, to have two hearts, or to be able to regulate most of his body functions. Something similar is happening on a more…subconscious level.

Donna’s voice is fading.

Well. It’s not fading as much as it is _blending_.

While he used to be able to somehow hear her shouting within his skull – usually when he’d just said or done something stupid, the voice that now whispers warnings or advice into his inner ear isn’t really Donna’s anymore. It’s…his, although he knows it to be different from…before, because Donna’s there, even if he can’t hear her anymore.

Her temper, her vocabulary, her mannerisms, her compassion…they’ve all left their mark on him.

He suspects her tendency to feel unworthy and insecure has blended nicely with his own capacity for self-loathing, which might account for some of the highs and lows he’s been experiencing recently.

Tonight, he’s being reminded of the fact that Donna Noble, for all of her outward poise and bravado, cannot hold her liquor. There’s a reason why she’d passed out so completely on so many occasions that she’d missed out on some major historical events.

His new body also happens to be quite inexperienced with alcohol, and having evidently lost the ability to metabolise ethanol five times more quickly than humans, this might explain why the Doctor finds himself eating Jackie’s roast dinner while being the tiniest bit…tipsy.

Two glasses, he’s had.

Three, tops.

Sure, two of those were glasses of champagne, thanks to the Tylers being rich and insisting that they should toast on _new beginnings_ and all that, and apparently, expensive bubbly liquor is quite potent. Still, he’s only halfway done with his glass of wine, now, another expensive bottle of something that tastes mostly dry and acerbic if you ask him, yet his head is…a teeny bit foggy.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s spent the last few minutes staring at Rose’s profile instead of eating his food, not even trying to listen to what is being said around the table, and he’s quite happy about that. She’s been smiling a lot, tonight.

And he does mean _a lot_.

She’s completely engaged in whatever conversation she’s having with her parents, only occasionally distracted by the toddler who regularly leaves his seat to climb onto her lap instead, happy to share most of her food with him, giving the small child a range of smiles that are even softer than the ones she’s been giving him, lately.

She looks almost…carefree.

It reminds him of the Rose she used to be, the Rose he first met all these years ago, whose very smile saved him from misery and loneliness, back when he thought himself abandoned and orphaned.

“What?” She eventually asks him the next time Tony slides off her lap to go bother his mother instead, no longer able to ignore his relentless staring.

The Doctor shrugs, the movement feeling a bit sloppy. “You’re beautiful,” he says simply, quite candidly, too.

Her cheeks, which seem permanently flushed these days, darken even more. She eyes his half-empty glass of wine, before looking back up at him. “Go easy on the wine,” she says. “It makes you babble.”

He lets out a sound that is somewhere between a snort and an offended scoff. “You call _that_ babbling?” He says. “If I were babbling, I would be comparing each feature of your face with the everlasting scintillating cascades of Syvalonia. Which I will not do, nope. Because you are much, much prettier than any body of water, no matter how much they sparkle under the light of three burning stars.”

A rather heavy silence follows his declaration, until Jackie’s voice breaks it: “I reckon we should give him _more_ wine. He’s quite a funny one, isn’t he? Bit on the cheesy side, but he’s always been a tad overdramatic.”

“Oi,” the Doctor cannot help but protest, turning his strangely heavy and light head to frown at Jackie, sitting across from him. “ _Overdramatic_?”

She rolls her eyes, just as Rose says: “Leave him alone, will you?”

The Doctor is surprised to hear a note of warning in her voice, finding a matching expression on her face when he looks back at her. It’s not the first time she’s asked her mother to ‘leave him alone’ tonight, and he suspects it won’t be the last.

He almost wishes she wouldn’t.

“’m only teasing,” Jackie dismisses with a wave of her hand, but the glance she exchanges with her husband says otherwise.

She does change the subject, though, successfully taking the focus away from the Doctor and his tipsiness. He doesn’t miss how Rose soon reaches across his plate to grab his glass of wine, downing the rest of it in one go, which makes him feel an odd mix of amusement and frustration, not sure he appreciates being monitored like this.

Newer, less efficient metabolism aside, his head has almost completely cleared up by the time they’re eating pudding. By then, it’s become impossible to ignore the rather loud and grumpy child at their table. As his mother eventually points out, it’s almost an hour passed his bedtime, and it shows.

Before long, she’s carrying the wailing toddler out of the room and up the stairs, leaving Rose and Pete to discuss some new division that just opened up at Torchwood, with the Doctor still doing most of the listening, not exactly enthusiastic about anything Torchwood related at the moment.

Jackie comes back down less than ten minutes later. “He wants you to tuck him in,” she informs Rose, in a tone of voice that states she doesn’t have much of a say in the matter.

Rose turns to look at him, an eyebrow slightly raised, as if asking him if he’ll be alright, left on his own with her parents, and he smiles at her. He’s over nine-hundred years old.

He can handle a couple of middle-aged humans.

It’s all rather polite, at first, Pete chit-chatting about how he’s quite envious of the Doctor’s growing beard, as he never was able to grow one himself. Barely two minutes have gone by since Rose has left the table that his mobile begins to ring, though, soon excusing himself to pick up the incoming call.

The moment he leaves the room, the Doctor feels Jackie’s eyes boring into him.

He tries ignoring her at first, looking everywhere but at the woman sitting across from him, pretending to be admiring the decorations around the dining room, which are quite lovely.

He quickly gives up.

“Go ahead, then”, he tells her with a small sigh, finally turning his gaze on her. “Let me have it.”

The look on Jackie’s face isn’t exactly stern, but it is certainly graver than it’s been all evening.

“You’re not gonna run off, are you?” She finally asks.

He’s so surprised by her question that both his eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“You know what I mean,” she says with an annoyed click of her tongue. “You’re…a wanderer, an adventurer. A _thrill_ seeker. That’s what got Rose all smitten in the first place, innit? She’s got that streak in her, too, always did, even as a kid. But now, you’re…stuck here, the two of you, without your flying box. And while I know Rose can take it, ‘cause she’s done it before, I can’t stop thinking…how long’s it gonna be, before you realise this ‘being human’ thing isn’t adventurous enough for you, and you go breaking my daughter’s heart again.”

The Doctor is too stunned by her words to be able to even think properly for a moment. His heart has gone from beating lazily in his chest to pounding against his ribs, pulsing in his ears and at the base of his constricting throat.

He cannot technically deny any of the things she’s just said; centuries of track record prove that she’s got him figured out. But that she might think him capable of hurting Rose on purpose…

“I’d never…” he tries, but his throat clenches.

He cannot hold her gaze anymore, swallowing passed the lump currently making it impossible for him to speak, horrified when he feels a familiar burning sensation prickling in his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

“Maybe you wouldn’t run off,” Jackie says in a much softer voice, as if taking pity on him. “I know you love her, ‘m not blind. But look at it from my point of view. You _forced_ her to leave you quite a few times, now. Every version of you I’ve ever seen has done it, including that last time just a week ago, with the other…you, just leaving her behind on that beach when she wasn’t lookin’.”

“That’s not…”

 _Damn_ his bloody throat.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jackie carries on. “Grand sacrificing gesture and all that, I get it. Just like it was when you sent her back to me and away from whatever battle you were fightin’ all these years ago, isn’t that right? Or like it was when you first trapped her in this universe. I know Pete’s the one who’s done it in the end, I know that and ‘m grateful every day of my life that he did it…but that’s what you wanted for her, too.”

Her tone isn’t aggressive in any way, but there is a harsh, honest note in her voice that causes his insides to clench repeatedly as his heart thumps faster and louder in his chest.

“Thing is, Doctor,” Jackie resumes, a lot more quietly, “that’s not what Rose wanted. ‘t’s never been what she wanted, never will be, I reckon. I’ve watched her almost killing herself time and time again, trying to get back to you. She worked as hard on that bloody cannon as she ever did trying to open up that TARDIS of yours the first time ‘round. And I helped her do it, both times. ‘cause what else was I supposed to do, when I knew she was a bit less likely to die with my help than without it? But now that she’s got you, really got you…I don’t think she’d be able to cope with any of this happening again, d’you understand?”

A deep feeling of injustice is now melding with his genuine heartache.

She has _no idea_ what it cost him, each of these times, to send Rose away. To step out of her life, or to force her out of his, in order to protect her.

But he _does_ understand, better than she realises.

She’s her mother.

She loved Rose long before he did. Her drive to protect her is more instinctive and innate than his could ever be, even if it blinds her and makes it impossible for her to see things from _his_ point of view, to understand what Rose means to him; that she’s all he’s got.

That he wouldn’t be able to cope with ‘any of this happening again’ any more than Rose could.

Physically incapable of doing anything else, the Doctor eventually gives Jackie a brisk nod of his head, unable to meet her gaze.

Less than a minute goes by before Pete comes back into the room. “Sorry about that,” he says, already putting a new set of glasses onto the table, much smaller than the ones they’d used so far. “I know you’re under strict supervision, but you really can’t have roast dinner without topping it off with a bit of whiskey.” Already, Pete is filling up the glasses with dark liquid. “I figured you’d probably need it, too. I could hear Jackie talking your ears off from the other room.”

“Just had to say a few things that needed sayin’, is all. Don’t you get noisy, now,” Jackie warns her husband.

The Doctor thinks he might take Pete up on his offer, still unable to make eye-contact with any of them, feeling increasingly uncomfortable in his own skin, almost…breathless, as if his tie was tightening around his neck…until he remembers he’s not wearing a tie.

He hasn’t worn one in days.

He does reach for the glass of liquor, although he only curls his fingers around it, forcing himself to take another deep inhale.

“Change of topic, then!” Pete exclaims, sitting back down. “Have you given any thought on what your civil name should be?”

The Doctor, who finds this particular topic as difficult to breach as the ones Jackie ruthlessly brought up a minute ago, can only swallow hard, one hand still clenching at the glass, the other briefly coming up to pull at his ear.

 “Nothing definitive, no,” he speaks to his glass.

“Oh well, I suppose it’s not urgent,” Pete continues. “Although it might make things a bit more difficult in the long run. A proper name will make any official business you’ll have to conduct much simpler to achieve, believe me. Health insurance, bank accounts and all that. Mind you, the first one will be part of the package once you join us at Torchwood, and I suppose the second one won’t be necessary until you start earning a salary.”

The Doctor raises the glass to his lips and downs its content in one go.

It burns.

“Could you point me to the loo?” He asks a moment later, his voice barely sounding like his own.

“I’ll show you,” Pete offers, and the Doctor finds himself following him through a couple of large rooms and down some corridor.

The small shot of alcohol sits uncomfortably in his stomach, now, and he feels his skin dampening as his head goes back to being oddly foggy.

“I don’t know what Jackie told you in there, but I can tell it wasn’t pleasant,” he hears Pete say. They’ve stopped in front of a wall covered with photographs, most of them of Tony. “Don’t take it too personally, all right? She’s just being overprotective, the way Jackie always is when it comes to the kids. Rose’s old enough to make her own decisions. Jackie knows that, too, but it’s always been a hard pill for her to swallow.”

The Doctor only nods, keeping his eyes fixed on a random picture of Tony and Jackie in a swimming pool. He wishes Pete hadn’t mentioned Rose’s name, as it makes him yearn for her presence. He wants to hide his face into the crook of her neck and take comfort in her scent and the press of her body, in the feel of her arms around him, of her fingers in his hair.

He feels more pitiable than ever when he realises that the reason why he wants her here is because she’d somehow be able to make this all better, apparently incapable of getting a grip on himself without her emotionally holding him up.

“It’s the last door on the right,” Pete says at last before excusing himself, having realised he wouldn’t get anything out of him.

The Doctor listens to his retreating footsteps as he slumps back against the wall, soon closing his eyes, trying to keep his breathing slow and controlled, determined to calm down on his own.

Inside his chest, his heart keeps on pounding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering whether or not I feel bad for repeatedly crushing Tentoo's spirit, the answer is oh yes. Does it mean I'll stop? Hahaha! The second half of this joyful evening at the Tylers will hopefully be posted next weekend. 
> 
> Don't be shy, I love hearing your thoughts and opinions!


	4. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changing the rating from mature to explicit because...well, you know. The Doctor's had a tough day. This is 6,000 words of pure tentoo x rose. A gigantic thank you to Laura for her endless support.
> 
> Enjoy!

**IV.**

Tony doesn’t fall asleep as fast as Rose hoped he would.

She’s always loved spending those moments with him, when he’s all tucked in bed, either reading him a story, or having one of those senseless conversations you can only have with a child under the age of four – or occasionally with a Time Lord.

And it’s not that she doesn’t enjoy spending this alone time with her brother, but she’s a little too aware that with every minute she spends up here with him, that’s one more minute the Doctor has to spend alone with her parents.

“Is he your boyfriend?” Tony asks her, as randomly as he’d asked if gummy bear were made of actual bears.

Her fingers briefly pause, having spent the last few minutes gently running them through his hair as they chatted. “The Doctor?” She asks, and he nods. “Yeah.”

It is _bizarre_ to think of him as her ‘boyfriend’, but she’s not sure how else she is supposed to define their relationship, especially to a drowsy three year old.

“He’s funny,” Tony says. “And tall. I like him.”

Rose smiles at how honest these statements are. “I like him, too,” she speaks softly, remembering telling the Doctor just that only hours ago.

When she lets herself feel just how much she ‘likes’ him, her heart physically seems to squeeze inside her chest.

“You know, he’s just arrived, here,” she continues quietly. “So he doesn’t know a lot of people except for us, and he can get a little bit sad, sometimes. Can I count on you to keep on doing what you’ve been doing today? Be all nice and super cute, yeah?”

Tony giggles, grabbing Rose’s face in his small hands, pulling her head down until her face is close enough for the tip of their noses to touch and brush against each other; Eskimo kisses have long been one of their many little rituals.

“I missed you,” he says, every bit as genuinely as before, and she feels another kind of dip in her chest.

“I know,” Rose says. “I’ve missed you too, sweetie.”

“You gonna go again?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says softly. “I’m staying, now.”

Tony stares at her for a few seconds, before rolling over in his bed, instinctively curling into his favourite sleeping position, his breathing already louder and deeper, Rose’s fingers remaining in his hair as he falls asleep.

She exits the room as quickly and quietly as she can, making a quick detour by the bathroom first as she’d had quite a few glasses herself, between the champagne and the wine. The memory of the Doctor’s hazy eyes as he told her she was beautiful earlier at dinner is enough to make her blush, longing to get back to him now, in a way that is almost embarrassing.

There is no reason for her to look to her left when she reaches the ground floor, as the room she needs to get back to is on the other side of the house. And yet she looks left as she steps off the stairs, immediately spotting the Doctor, who is slowly making his way back from what might have been the guest bathroom, unable to stop herself from smiling, her heart leaping a little – another embarrassing reaction she cannot control.

Her smile falters as soon as she takes him in.

“What’s wrong?” She asks him, her pace brisker as she walks to him, searching his face, but he’s purposefully avoiding her gaze, his jaw clenched.

“I’m fine,” he replies. Or lies, really.

His entire frame is tensed, both his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Even though he’s not meeting her gaze, she can tell his eyes are slightly blurred again.

She brings a hand up to his face without thinking, wanting to take a better look at him. “You’ve had more to drink, haven’t you?”

The Doctor does something he’s never done before: he pulls his face away, one of his hands coming up to push her arm down, frowning deeply as he does so, finally locking his hard gaze with hers. The gesture isn’t harsh in itself, barely putting any force into it, but it makes it clear he doesn’t want her to touch him.

“I’m not a child,” he then says, rather coldly. “Please stop treating me like one.”

Any of those two things – him physically recoiling from her or his words – would have been enough to upset her.

Both of them together…it’s more than she can cope with.

Rose averts her eyes, strangely aware of her own heart thumping against her ears, her next intake of breath a bit too loud. She bites hard on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from being meek and apologising immediately.

This is not who she is.

She forces herself to keep her breathing controlled and slow instead, shoving her emotional self aside, allowing a more rational side of her to take over. Something’s obviously happened to him during the short time she spent upstairs with Tony, something distressing enough to cause his mood to plummet completely. She suspects that something to be her mother.

His responses are not that unexpected. Hurtful, maybe, but also inevitable, given what’s already happened earlier today back at Torchwood.

“Sorry.”

The Doctor breathes out the word more than he speaks it, and she looks up at him. He’s closed his eyes. His skin is too pale, his features constricted in what is becoming a familiar grimace, guilty, shamed, and frustrated. Seeing these signs of distress while sensing how tensed he is makes her _ache_ to reach out for him, to comfort him, somehow.

But he’s made himself quite clear.

“What happened?” She whispers instead, standing as close to him as she dares to stand, searching his face as if she could find answers in those creases between his eyes. “Did Mum…did she ambush you?”

He lets out an odd noise, like a breathless, humourless chuckle. He reopens his eyes, although he is careful not to look at her. “Something like that.”

That’s all Rose needs.

Her concern turns into a kind of irritation she knows well. As much as she loves her mother, this woman is an expert at getting under her skin and making her _mad_.

She’s already started storming off when the Doctor stops her, having grabbed one of her hands. She turns to look at him, meeting his gaze.

“Don’t,” he says in a thick voice, shaking his head. “I don’t want…” He swallows hard. “Please don’t get into an argument over me. I’m fine.” The face she makes must make it clear she’s everything but convinced, because he grimaces a little, squinting his eyes. “Well, alright. I suppose I’ve been better. But you fighting with your mother to defend my honour would only make it worse.”

Rose wants to tell him she wouldn’t be doing it for his _honour_ , that her desire to defend him has absolutely nothing to do with his pride, but he’s already averted his eyes. His skin remains too pale, his gaze somewhat unfocused. He’s in no shape for any kind of deep discussion at the moment.

His fingers have gone from loosely holding hers to being curled tightly around them, though, and she suspects that if she were to reach up for him again, he wouldn’t recoil from her touch this time.

“Let’s call it a night, then,” she says quietly, before pulling on his hand, leading him through a couple more corridors towards the kitchen.

Both her parents are in there, doing some washing up. They’re also in a middle of a rather animated, half-whispered conversation, and Rose wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Doctor or herself were at the centre of it.

“We’re gonna go,” Rose announces from the doorway, a bit louder than necessary, maybe, alerting her parents of their presence; she feels the Doctor standing close behind her.

Jackie stares at her in disbelief. “What, already?”

“It’s getting late,” is all Rose says, resisting the urge to tell her mum how she really feels, respecting the Doctor’s wishes.

It’s particularly difficult when she’s looking at her the way she is now. “It’s not _that_ late. Not to mention those few glasses you’ve had earlier,” Jackie points out. “You may be more resistant than he is, you still can’t drive that car of yours for another hour or so. Oh, don’t be silly, why don’t you just spend the night?”

The moment Jackie makes this ‘suggestion’, everybody in the room knows this had been her plan all along.

Rose tries her best to get them out of it. She argues back for a good minute, in a typical mother/daughter exchange the Doctor knows she’s not going to win.

“We don’t have any of our stuff with us,” Rose eventually says; a weak last attempt, but he commends her for having lasted as long as she has without caving.

“What’s with all the nonsense?” Jackie easily retorts. “You’ve got plenty of things, here. Pete can lend the Doctor a pair of jimjam, and I know we’ve got spare toothbrushes in one of the guest bathrooms. C’mon, your bed’s already made up. I figured it would be nice, you staying over. It’s Saturday, tomorrow, you’ll be able to spend more time with Tony.”

That’s a low blow, one she uses expertly, too.

Rose doesn’t say anything else after that. She does sigh loudly, her way of admitting defeat, before turning around, wordlessly pulling on the Doctor’s hand as she guides him back towards the staircase.

“Sorry,” she says weakly. “We can…still sneak out, if you want. My blood’s probably cleared enough for me to drive anyway.”

He squeezes her fingers, and she stops walking, looking  back at him over her shoulder. He’s done the maths the moment Jackie mentioned it back in the kitchen; she’d have to wait at least another half an hour before driving safely.

Truthfully, he would rather be alone with her in a room within the next five minutes than tolerate another thirty minutes of socialising.

“I don’t mind staying over,” he tells her quietly, and he means it, too.

He’d been having a nice time, up until Jackie’s little ‘chat’. Now that she’s said ‘what needed to be said’, he knows she will leave him alone…as long as he doesn’t give her any more reason to get cross with him.

Rose offers him a small, unconvinced smile, before resuming her pulling, leading him up a flight of stairs and down a couple corridors. The Doctor still feels somewhat disconnected from his own body, all the while too aware of the sensations whacking at it.

He’s calmed down from his earlier panic, but he feels almost sore as a result from being so tensed, and he’s sweated quite a bit, too; the deodorant he started wearing religiously only prevents him from emitting pungent smells, not from getting…sticky. Even now, his weak metabolism is struggling to filter the strong liquor he ingested. The unpleasant weight in his stomach is gone, but his thoughts feel…blurred, his head heavy and a bit achy –  and he’s not entirely sure this is caused by the alcohol.

The only solace he finds from those unpleasant sensations is her.                                                

Familiar tingles begin running under his skin as he follows her, his anxious mind latching onto it, onto her. He’s a mess of discomfort, and this sheer awareness of her proximity, of her fingers between his, is enough to make his very self sigh in relief.

Which is why he experiences a ridiculously strong feeling of loss when Rose lets go of his hand as soon as they enter what must be her bedroom, going straight for her dresser in search of something to wear.

He knows he shouldn’t be staring at her the way he is, but keeping himself from doing so is hard enough when he’s got full control of this body; there’s no point in even trying tonight.

Her shoulders slump and she stops her rummaging, as if she was feeling the weight of his stare on her.

“I don’t mean to make you feel like that,” she says quietly. “Like…you’re a child.”

She turns, enough for him to see her face and meet her eyes. The instant his heavy gaze locks with hers, something shifts in the air. No words need to be spoken for him to remember how much she makes him feel like a man.

The tension dissipates slightly when there’s a knock on the door.

Being closer to it, he goes to open it, exchanging a few words with Pete as he hands over some flannel pyjamas along with a couple of toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste. He doesn’t linger. The Doctor closes the door and finds himself staring at the items in his arms, feeling an odd sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He feels…tired.

Tired of being handed things that aren’t his; not that it could be any other way.

He doesn’t have anything that’s his.

“You don’t have to wear them.”

He raises his heavy head, refocusing on Rose with mild difficulties; some of his weariness must have shown on his face, because she’s now looking at him with a calm, knowing expression.

“t’s not like you ever keep those on, anyway.” There is a hint of teasing in her voice as she adds those few words, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and he remembers, then; that he does have something.

He’s got _her_.

His want for her is so intense in that moment that it becomes a physical tug, the sensation almost painful as it pulls at his very core.

He unceremoniously drops everything onto the floor and walks the few steps to where she stands, kissing her before he’s even done taking the decision to kiss her. She’s taken aback by his eagerness, as proven by the sharp, surprised breath she draws against his lips. Her shock passes quickly, hooking her arms around him to bring herself closer, sinking her fingers in his hair as he kisses her ardently. They curl and they pull and they graze, in that way of hers she _knows_ drives him wild, until he’s pushing her not-so-slowly towards the bed.

His unfocused, hazy mind is definitely a hindrance tonight, once again not entirely sure how he’s already swaying upon her with her legs locked around him, barely able to swallow back a groan, trapped as he is against her, the repeated friction amplifying the rush of sensations where their bodies are pinned.

They’ve done this quite a few times, this week. He’s always tried keeping the focus on her rather than on himself, aware that his pleasure will come no matter what, while hers needs to be…enticed and chased – a race he’s always happy to take part in.

This, tonight, is no paced racing, at all.

He feels like he’s all set for a sprint.

Rose has proven herself to be attuned to him too many times not to realise that, not to know and feel how slippery his control is right now. And yet, instead of trying to slow things down, she speeds things _up_ , her hand slipping between them, popping his jeans open and pulling the zipper down, her fingers swiftly disappearing inside his boxers.

He feels himself swelling against her hand as he rests his forehead against hers, unable to hold back his next moan, which rings loud and clear in the otherwise quiet room. She alternates teasing the flesh of his lips with nibbling teeth and the tip of her tongue as her fingers move around him, until he’s thrusting in her hand, already feeling those prickly tendrils taking roots so deep inside of him.

“Clothes?” She breathes out against his swollen lips, and all he can do is nod sloppily.

The next few moments are absolutely unbearable, having forced his body away from hers long enough to undress himself. She’s done discarding of her clothes long before he is, obviously, helping him strip out of his last few items, until he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, with her straddling his lap.

Her arms are back around his neck, his around her waist, their bare skin nearly fused together, and the tight press of her breasts upon his chest, combined with the hot feel of her against his throbbing length, is almost too much. He shudders and moans against her neck as she rolls her hips into him, successfully teasing them both, rasping his name in his ear. In that hazy, pleasure-induced moment, he becomes convinced that he is going to snap if he doesn’t get inside of her _now_.

His next moves are equally clumsy and swift, completely changing their position until he’s got her pressed upon the bed again; both his hands have released her to grab at the bed sheets on each side of her head, feeling his feet pressing against something cool and sturdy – the headboard, possibly?

He doesn’t give himself time to think at all, only aware of her and of the fact that their bodies are perfectly aligned. Despite her initial gasp of surprise, she’s encouraging him, not stopping him at all, her legs pinned to his sides, her fingers digging upon his shoulder-blade and down his lower back, until he uses his grip on the linen and the leverage of his feet against the bedframe to push himself into her.

There is no time for adjustments, tonight, not in his state. He knows himself to be sloppier than he’s ever been with her, unable to be remotely slow or tender, but he’s every bit as passionate, his face pressed upon hers, choked up sounds escaping his throat every time he drives himself into her, that aching, aching warmth spreading further and deeper, as every ounce of tension he’s accumulated today gathers up and swells, ready to be released.

It’s one of those rare times when they’re connected yet not entirely _connecting_.

Rose is well aware of it, having purposefully kept the focus on him. He may not be allowing her to help him deal with whatever is troubling him these days, she knew there were still ways for her to help him let loose, if only physically.

She’s far from being unaffected by this rougher, more carnal meeting of their bodies; he’s always been an intense lover, and this is no different; despite the rush of it all, they’ve done this enough times for her to be able to match the swift pace of his thrusts, feeling her own pleasure mounting as she clings onto him so hard she briefly thinks they’ll both get bruises from this.

His movements become erratic as he reaches his peak, and she releases her hold on him to cup his face as he does, keeping his forehead pressed upon hers, his body soon stilling completely as a familiar shudder violently shakes his entire frame, the hot breath on her lips turning into a choked up moan that almost sounds like her name.

He nothing short of collapses upon her, trembling from head to toes, his warm, uneven breath soon burning the side of her neck as she weaves her fingers through his damp hair, her touch slow and soothing.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers against her skin. Even muffled and quiet as his voice was, she hears how disgruntled he is about this.

She wants to reassure him, tell him not to worry, maybe even admit that he’s given her more pleasure in a week’s time than all her past lovers _combined_ through months of relationships; she’s more concerned about his recent state of mind than she is about getting another orgasm today.

Before she can say or do anything, he is on the move, slipping out of her as he shifts upon her, one of his hands already coming down between them. She follows him, loosely grabbing at his wrist. “It’s fine, really, you don’t have – ” but her whisper turns into a low gasp as he touches her.

Having been close to climax herself, her body remains highly sensitive, her brain instantly switching back to focusing on the feel of him and that pulsing need within.

His mouth has opened upon her neck, his tongue slowly tracing a spot he knows to be particularly erogenous as his thumb and fingers focus on other sensitive places. She lets go of his wrist to grab at his hair again with both her hands. He responds to her tugs, bringing his face back up to hers, kissing her as lazily as he’d kissed her neck, massaging her tongue and swallowing her moans as his fingers elicit more of that swelling pleasure, following the bucking of her hips.

He lets go of her lips a mere instant before she comes, and this awareness of him watching her as she does is the perfect catalyst to her bliss, soon riding out that wave as far and high as it will take her.

By the time she’s regained control of her limbs – and thoughts, the Doctor’s face is buried in the crook of her neck again, successfully hiding from her. Rose doesn’t relent, her turn to shift and apply some pressure, separating their bodies just enough for her to see his face, flushed and sweaty, and definitely trying to avoid her gaze.

She brings a hand to his forehead, gently brushing damp strands of hair off his skin. They stay like this for a while, in relative silence as their breathings remain a bit loud, her fingers moving gently through his hair as their skins cool and perspiration evaporates, his mind…somewhere else.

“What’s going on in there?” She eventually whispers, stopping her caress to rest her palm upon his forehead.

He lets their eyes meet, before reaching up for her hand, entwining their fingers together. He brings them to his lips, kissing the top of her hand…and then he keeps it there, feeling his short exhales upon her skin.

She squeezes his fingers in the end, admitting defeat again, before straightening up upon the bed. “C’mon…” she says softly, pointing at the en-suite bathroom with a tilt of her chin. “Shower, then sleep, yeah?”

Once again, the Doctor follows her without a word.

…

He awakes long before she does.

While he’d love nothing more than stay in bed with Rose for another few hours, he cannot help his mind from _thinking_ , and the memories of the previous day are enough to get his heart racing a little again. He needs to _move_ , even if it means dislodging himself from Rose’s warm embrace.

Even careful as he is, she begins to stir as soon as she loses his body heat. She instinctively seeks him out, rolling more onto her stomach, her eyes eventually fluttering open – barely. “You’kay?” She mumbles.

“Yeah,” he whispers, leaning forward until his lips are brushing her forehead, gently readjusting the covers over her. “Go back to sleep.”

She hums in response. He doesn’t move straight away, filling up his lungs with the warm scent of her instead. By the time he’s pulling away, her breathing has deepened already. After a necessary trip to the bathroom, he puts on the pyjamas he’d discarded the previous night and quietly leaves the room.

He doesn’t have a watch, but even without his time sense, he knows it’s early, probably not much passed 6am. He swiftly navigates the corridors and a flight of stairs, taking himself back where he’d stood the previous evening, easily finding what he’d been looking for.

Ever since he woke up, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that wall of photographs, but couldn’t remember _what_ had bothered him about it, until he’s staring at it again, and the reason becomes obvious at once.

There’s not a single picture of Rose.

Tony is prominent, as in, ‘present in every picture pinned to the wall’. There is no real chronology to the way the photographs were arranged upon the wall, displaying images of the youngest Tyler from the day of his birth to much more recent times, sometimes with either or both of his parents, often on his own.

Never with his sister.

Even absorbed as he is in his contemplation, his nose a bit too close to the wall to compensate for the lack of light and the absence of his specs, the Doctor actually becomes aware that Rose is approaching, this time, the sound of her bare feet hard to miss in the otherwise silent house.

She doesn’t say a word as she joins him, coming to stand by his side, slipping an arm around him, and he mirrors her, pinning her securely to him, burying his nose in her hair as she leans heavily against him.

“Any way I can tempt you into coming back to bed?” She asks sleepily against his shoulder, and he chuckles softly in her hair, his arm tightening around her in an affectionate squeeze.

He answers with his own question: “Can I ask you something?”

There is a heavy pause, during which she says nothing at all, but it is enough for him to feel like quite the hypocrite, a little too aware of all the dodging he’s been doing these past couple days whenever _she_ ’s asked him something.

“’course,” she says simply, proving once more that she is the better person in this relationship.

“Why the photo-phobia?”

He feels her chin on his shoulder, and when he looks down at her, he’s not surprised to see her frown.

“There’s no picture in your flat,” he adds. “Not a single photo of you on that wall either, and knowing your mother, I doubt keeping you off it was her decision.”

She averts her eyes, resting her cheek against his shoulder instead. “It wasn’t,” she confirms and even though her voice is soft and still a bit sleepy, he senses renewed tension in her. “Wasn’t always like that either. I asked her to take them down, actually. I just…it felt weird.”

“Weird?”

“Dunno,” she breathes out with a vague shrug. “Mum went through this phase after we got here, when she realised she’d lost every single picture of me from when I was little and she got real upset. Every memento from my childhood and all that stuff…all gone, you know? So when Tony was born, she…overcompensated, I guess. Photographed him every three minutes, and did the same to me for a while. When she started putting them up here, though…I asked her to get rid of mine, because…” She pauses, distractedly rubbing her cheek against the fabric of his pyjamas, her next intake of breath louder than it should be. “I didn’t want to _be_ here,” she admits, almost reluctantly. “Pictures just made me more…real, I guess. ‘t was just easier to keep on pretending I wasn’t. That I didn’t exist.”

It’s his turn to tense and inhale too sharply.

Rose pushes against him, just enough to look up at him, finding a look of genuine shock on his face. “What is it?” She asks with a hint of concern, his surprise already morphing into something more sour, something closer to shame.

When he only swallows and shakes his head, she closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his shoulder with a defeated sigh, her insides twisting in a kind of unease that is becoming too familiar.

He must have sensed her frustration, because he speaks at last.

“I forgot.”

Rose raises her head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the pictures. “Forgot…what?” She prompts quietly.

He swallows hard again. “I forgot that you didn’t exist either when you first got stuck here.”

His embarrassment is obvious in his tone and the constricted traits of his face.

She moves, facing him rather than leaning against his side, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek, the hair under her palm more soft than prickly, now.

“You’ve been kinda trapped inside your own head since we left Norway,” she says without a hint of reproach. “I didn’t say anything about it ‘cause I thought that’s what you needed. But ’m pretty sure it’s just making things worse, now.”

The Doctor closes his eyes, the air quivering out of his lungs as he leans into her touch.

“You’ve got to talk to me,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, increasing the pressure against his cheek. “We gotta keep that honesty thing going, yeah? If we don’t, things…build up. I get worried. I get frustrated and pushy because you’re not letting me in, and then you get frustrated thinking ’m trying to…mother you, or control you, when really, all I want to do is help you. Please let me help you.”

When he reopens his eyes, she’s only mildly surprised to see how red their rims have become. “I’m just – ”

But the words get choked up in his throat as his face constricts. He immediately tries pulling away from her, but she’s brought her second hand up to his other cheek. He only fights her for a second or two as she shushes him softly, pulling his face down to press gentle kisses to his cheekbones, soon tasting salt as frustrated tears seep from his eyes, and both his hands come to clench at her upper arms.

“Is that it, then?” He eventually asks, his voice hoarse and ringing with aggravation. “Is that who I am, now? Still not ginger, and getting bloody weepy whenever I’m upset?”

Rose presses her nose against his, threading all ten of her fingers in his hair. “Why not?” She asks. “There’s nothing shameful about it.”

“Oh, really.”

She pulls away at the sarcasm in his voice, her hold on him more or less forcing him to meet her gaze. “Yes, really,” she tells him. “I know it’s been drilled into your head that you shouldn’t show emotions, or whatever it is you were taught by your people. But you’ve got human in you, now, and humans are emotional beings. We cry because we need to, not because we’re weak.”

“Well I don’t _like_ it,” the Doctor says, sullen and annoyed, sniffling loudly.

“And that’s fine, too,” she replies, unbothered. “Being human sucks, sometimes. We get cranky over everything. We get cranky when we’re hungry. We get cranky when we’re tired. We sleep too much. We cry at the most inappropriate of times. And if you’re born with a uterus, you actually experience all of that tenfold at least once a month, usually with painful cramps to top it off. So trust me, I _get_ it. Maybe I don’t _get it_ get it, ‘cause I’ve always lived like this, but I can at least relate to some level. Just like I can relate to being stuck in a world where you don’t even exist and you have no identity and nothing left, absolutely _nothing_ left from your old life. So,” she says, pausing for a moment, bringing her hands back down from his hair to his cheeks. “Will you _please_ talk to me?”

He stares at her with red-rimmed eyes. “I love you.”

She shakes her head, even as her thumbs gently wipe off the last traces of his tears. “Not good enough.”

He closes his eyes with a  heavy sigh. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to be honest,” she insists. “Try talking to me about what’s upsetting you, instead of withdrawing completely into yourself.”

“I don’t even _know_ what’s upsetting me,” he admits. “It’s just…everything, Rose. I feel confused, and overwhelmed, and I’m somehow expected to just _get on_ with it all, when I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You’ve just described the emotional state of most adults on this planet.”

His face scrunches up in an equal amount of confusion and frustration. “How does anyone function?” He asks, bewildered. “Or get anything done?”

“You just…learn as you go,” she shrugs with a small, resigned pout. “You find what works for you, and what doesn’t. Some people make lists and prioritise. Others just kinda do things as they present themselves. You learn to trust your gut, and a few special people you can rely on. So,” she says again, emphasising what she’s going to ask next by tightening her hold on his face. “What are your instincts telling you, right now? What do you _need_?”

He could have easily deflected by turning her question into another innuendo; he doesn’t, thinking about it for a long, stretching minute.

“I need…to know more.” He says at last. “About…me. About what’s happened to my physiology.”

“Okay,” Rose says softly. “I’ll talk to Pete, then.” She doesn’t say more, avoiding the word ‘tests’ altogether.

Within seconds, he’s leaning forward, enveloping her into a tight embrace, and she doesn’t imagine the way some tension seems to leave his body. She responds in kind, holding him to her, his nose once more pressed to her neck.

“I love you,” he repeats against her skin, and her heart leaps at the aching sincerity in his voice.

She moves, pressing her lips to his jaw, just below his ear. “I love you,” she whispers back, before letting her lips trail down his neck, feeling his arms tightening around her, the energy around their bodies already changing.

“Does _this_ ever slow down?” He asks in a raspy voice, his body definitely reacting to her attention.

“I dunno,” she admits, pulling away to meet his eyes. “This is new for me, too.”

She’d loved her previous partners, but never quite in the way she loves him.

Never to this point, where it hurts her as much as it soothes her.

And she knows he gets it, from the look in his eyes to the way he soon kisses her, as if he’s aching as much as she is.

When he pulls on her hand to lead her back upstairs, Rose follows him without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll probably be at least a couple of weeks before I can update again. Finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel that was this school year, but I'm not quite there yet.
> 
> In the meanwhile, feedback would be lovely and much appreciated ♥


	5. V.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comments and kind words, as well as for your patience. I've survived the end of the school year, but I am now on holidays somewhere without a computer and with a limited internet access (but plenty of free time to write!)
> 
> You can trust the fluff, this time. I do mean that.
> 
> (sorry for any weird formatting or extra typos, I'll tweak them as soon as technologically possible)

**V.**

The Doctor is coming to learn that his Time Lord senses are not as gone as he initially believed. Most of the time, they seem perfectly human, or as human as he assumes human senses to be. He's becoming familiar enough with this body to have noticed that whenever his instincts kick in, some of his old Time Lord abilities deign make a reappearance, enhancing his otherwise rather human receptors.

Today, it’s his sense of smell.

Even though Rose’s room is quite a distance away from the mansion’s kitchen, the Doctor is stirred from a nice bout of snoozing by the smell of _sausages_ being cooked. He’s not even properly awake that his stomach lets out a long growl, the noise so loud he fully expects Rose to wake from it.

She doesn’t.

Splayed on her stomach, face pressed into a pillow, her arms snugged under it, she carries on snoring softly, her mouth half-opened. He’s entirely responsible for tiring her out this early in the day, something he’s not exactly feeling guilty about. He’d owed her some one-on-one attention after his sloppy performance the previous evening, and simply for being so lovely and patient with him despite his foul moods.

Overall, she’d been rather pleased with his focus – repeatedly.

She’s been sleeping long enough for her skin to have dried, but her hair remains slightly damp at their roots, while her cheeks retain that deep shade of pink. The Doctor has to resist the urge to press his lips to her warm skin, his heightened senses making him acutely aware of her scent, even picking up the faint, slow beats of her heart. Kissing her cheek would lead to kissing more of her, may it be her mouth or her neck or even the crook of her elbow, and before he knows it, they’ll be back to burning more calories, when he’s already ridiculously hungry.

 _Starving_ , really.

He indulges in a quick, necessary shower, before hopping in yesterday’s clothes, soon making his way downstairs, aware that he’s about to put himself in another potentially stressful situation by facing the Tylers on his own.

But his spirits are up, today, and he refuses to spend any more time moping.

He hears Tony long before he reaches the room and the food it holds, the toddler’s voice gaining in volume if not in clarity as he approaches the kitchen. When the Doctor cautiously pushes the door open, Tony stops talking almost at once at the sight of him. He seems unsure about how to behave for this tall man, who is little more than a stranger.

He goes for a bright smile. “Hi!” The young Tyler exclaims, waving enthusiastically.

“Hello,” the Doctor replies with a genuine smile, risking a glance at Jackie, who is standing at the stove.

She eyes him, a full up-and-down sweep, before she shakes her head with a click of her tongue. “Sit,” she commands him in way of greetings. “You really need to put some meat on. Can’t be healthy, being that skinny. Tea?” He’s not even seated properly that she’s putting a steaming cup in front of him. “How d’you like your eggs?”

“Uh…I’ll have what he’s having, if that’s alright,” the Doctor points at Tony’s plate, and the toddler nods in approval, his (closed) mouth full of sausage. “Slightly bigger portion, maybe?”

“I’ll triple it,” Jackie says before turning back to the stove. She doesn’t let any kind of silence settle in the kitchen, immediately speaking again. “Listen, I thought about our little…chit-chat from last night. Pete reckons I was a bit hard on you, and maybe he’s got a point. I still mean it, all the stuff I said, but I don’t want you thinkin’ I hate you, or that I see you as nothing more than a lanky git. ‘cause I really don’t. I just...get a tad overprotective when it comes to Rose, is all.”

“That’s a feeling I can relate to,” the Doctor says, honestly, and when Jackie glances back at him, a look of understanding passes between them. “Although to be honest, she’s the one doing all of the overprotecting, these days,” he adds with a small grimace. “I mostly flap around like a fish out of water.”

There is a heavy pause. “Bein’ repeatedly told off by your mother-in-law isn’t helping much with all the adjusting, I reckon?”

He feels himself blushing a little as he pulls at his ear, flustered by both the topic of discussion _and_ Jackie more or less referring to him as her son-in-law – which is not a bad feeling at all, but it is new and exhilarating and still a bit overwhelming.

Tony decides to join the conversation at this very moment.

“You gotta be nice, Ma,” he says, having obviously listened to every word the adults were saying, and understood enough to make that statement. “He hasn’t got friends.”

While Jackie gasps her son’s name in shock and mild horror, the Doctor can only grin at the three year old. “It’s quite alright,” he reassures her. “I can’t say I know many people, here. Although I thought you and I were mates,” he tells Tony with a small pout.

“We are!” He exclaims with rounded eyes, and the Doctor winks at him, before being nicely distracted by Jackie putting a full English breakfast in front of him.

He forces himself not to gorge down the food, despite officially coming to the conclusion that breakfast is his favourite meal in this body. The mood in the room is friendly and warm while they eat, the Doctor as entertained by Jackie’s chatter as he is by the conversations Tony regularly sparks up.

His mood goes up about a hundred more notches when the kitchen’s door opens again, and Rose appears, dressed and freshly showered, soon exchanging grins that must look as giddy as he feels. She goes around the table, giving her mum and brother a kiss and a hug; when she reaches him, she wraps an arm around his shoulders, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple, obviously choosing to keep things as platonic as possible in front of her family, and he doesn’t mind at all. Her greeting is lovely, her soft touch and the scent of her enough to cause his heart to speed up.

She doesn’t let him go as she sits down by his side, moving her arm lower around his waist. “How was breakfast?” She asks him with a knowing smile, his plate long empty.

“Succulent,” he answers with another one of those ridiculous smiles. “I was inexplicably hungry.”

Back at the stove, Jackie makes a sound, almost like a scoff. She doesn’t say anything, though, Tony now asking her if they can go to the park.

While the other two Tylers are busy with their conversation, Rose leans closer to him, resting her chin on his shoulder again – a favourite move of hers, one he sorely missed. “Just had a chat with Pete,” she tells him quietly. “He’s gonna call a few people for you. He thinks you should be able to just pop in whenever you feel like it next week, get it all done in one go, or spread it over a few days. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

Unable _not_ to, the Doctor leans forward, pressing a kiss to her nose – a favourite move of his he doubts he’ll ever tire of, soon resting his forehead against hers. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“ _Ahem_.”

They force their faces apart at Jackie’s less-than-subtle throat clearing, and she eyes them both as she sets a plate in front of Rose. “Eat it while it’s hot,” she tells her daughter. “Sounds like you need the energy.”

Pete chooses this very moment to enter the room. “Energy for what?” He asks, going straight for his wife, kissing her cheek while he ruffles Tony’s hair.

“Morning runs,” Rose answers casually, taking a sip of her tea. “I gotta get back into it.”

The Doctor is genuinely amused by her smooth deflection, as well as curious about her statement, but Pete turns to him before he gets a chance to ask her about it.

“Rose told me you were struggling with finding outfits you liked, and she suggested I gave you a hand.”

Rose nearly chokes on her tea, obviously unaware that her father was going to bring it up like that. “That’s not – ” she croaks, but the Doctor swiftly stops her.

“It’s fine,” he says with a smile and a bit of a shrug. “I _have_ been struggling with clothes shopping.”

“Excellent,” Pete says. “We’ll take the car, then, give our ladies some time to complain about us.”

When Pete and Jackie start discussing the logistic of their morning apart, Rose presses herself to his side again. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m sure,” he reassures her, resisting the urge to kiss her again. “I was recently reminded that it is okay and even healthy to accept help from other people when you're struggling. I’ve also realised that I’ve been waaay too mopey about this whole thing.”

“Doing something with a positive mind-set does make a difference,” she confirms before adding, lowering her voice so as not to be heard by the other couple: “Also, you’re about to go shopping with one of the wealthiest men in the country, which never hurts. I know you don’t like people just buying you stuff, but as shallow as it sounds, the more money Pete gets to spend on someone, the happier he gets. Just…let him spoil you a bit, yeah?”

“Duly noted,” he says, although this ‘money thing’ is another issue he’s been thinking about extensively today, already planning on discussing it with Pete as soon as possible.

The opportunity presents itself quickly, the two men soon alone in the back of Pete’s car, which is being driven by his personal driver.

“I’d like to talk to you about...finances,” the Doctor announces, hoping he doesn’t sound as uncomfortable as he feels.

“I thought you might,” Pete replies amicably.

“I…” he pauses, struggling to put this into words. “Money never was something I had to worry about. While I’ve lived for a very long time, I've never had to deal much with…paying for things, or getting paid for my…services. The whole concept of ‘money’ is still somewhat foreign to me, although I’m clever enough to understand how it all works, or to know I can’t keep it that way anymore. I also know that in this world, one cannot be truly independent unless they have the ability to pay for what they want or need. Your family has been extremely generous so far, and I know Rose doesn’t mind providing for me but...”

“You do,” Pete finishes for him, and the Doctor nods once.

“I know it makes me sound all kind of misogynistic, but this is not about gender, or who provides for whom.”

Pete nods. “How can I help?”

“You mentioned something about me opening a bank account, last night. I know I don’t have a proper identity yet, but I suspect a man of your status can…get around things like that.”

Pete nods again. “Setting you up with an account and your own debit card would be no trouble at all. Making sure that account remains stocked up wouldn’t be difficult either. But from what you’ve just told me, I take it you wouldn’t be comfortable with just living off our money.”

“I wouldn’t,” the Doctor shakes his head. “I have to make…concessions, though, and be realistic. It might be a while before I can earn a proper salary, and I can’t…it’s not a viable solution for me, to be so dependent on other’s generosity. Which is why I will accept your money, as long as we keep track of it. I intend on paying you back every cent.”

The Doctor knows it might take him _years_ to give back what he’s going to spend before he starts earning his own money, but this is the best solution to a rather tricky situation.

To his credit, Pete doesn’t argue at all. He extends a hand instead, and the Doctor shakes it, sealing their deal.

“I’m guessing there is something you’d like to buy, first?” Pete enquires with a smile, and the Doctor smiles back, feeling like a weight has been lifted.

“Indeed there is.”

…

Despite the fact that the Tyler’s mansion possesses its own playground (as well as a pool, a spa, and a tennis court, to list just a few things), her mother always insisted that Tony be taken to public playgrounds.

 _“I don’t want him growing up thinkin’ he’s got a silver spoon up his bum,”_ she’d say to Rose. “ _You didn’t have your own private garden as a kid, and you turned out fine, for the most part.”_

Which is why Rose finds herself supervising her three-year-old brother as he explores the playset, their mother having quickly found another person to gossip with. While she was asked to do quite a bit of swing pushing when they first got there, Tony made some friends and is now mostly ignoring his big sister, who’s retreated to a bench, using her phone to answer some of the work emails she’s been ignoring these past few days.

She’s interrupted by a new text message, originating from an unknown number.

 _Hello_ , is all it reads.

Rose frowns, although she feels a smile tugging at her lips, having a not-so-vague idea of who it might be from.

 _Who is this?_ She asks anyway.

The reply comes quickly. _Bit of a controversial topic at the moment_.

She’s barely started typing an answer that another text comes through. _I suppose one might refer to me as ‘a boyfriend’._

Rose deletes the start of her sentence, ready to write something else, when more messages begin pouring through, one every couple seconds or so.

_‘Partner’, maybe?_

_Nah scratch that, sounds a bit too official, like we’re expected to conduct business together._

_Even if, let’s be honest, we would excel at it._

_Speaking of excelling at things, ‘lover’ has a nice ring to it, too._

_Might lead to some awkward moments in social situations though._

_‘Hello, this is my lover’ is not something humans say to each other, is it?_

_‘Hello, this is my sidekick’ feels more appropriate as well as very truthful._

_(me evidently being the sidekick in this scenario)_

Finally, there’s a pause in the flow of messages.

 _Rose?_ He texts again half a minute later.

 _I was waiting for you to be done,_ she types. _We’re going to have to discuss the rules of text messaging. One of which includes NOT sending anything through until you’ve typed everything you wanted to type. Like me, right now. Look at all those sentences, put together. Next to each other. All sent in one go._

She sends it through.

 _Impressive_. _This is why I’m the sidekick._

She’s aware that she’s grinning from ear to ear, and cannot care less, typing quickly. _I take it Pete had something to do with you getting a phone, but how did you manage to get it working so quickly?_

There is another, slightly longer pause. _Technological enhancement_.

She shakes her head with a smirk. _Is that another way of saying ‘I used my sonic screwdriver’?_

_It was in my pocket. Feeling unused, and lonely. A bit like me._

“Roooose, watch me!”

She looks up from her phone, suddenly remembering that she’s supposed to be watching the three-year-old currently sitting at the top of a slide. As soon as he knows he’s got his sister’s attention, Tony slides down, in an absolutely unremarkable way, but Rose cheers for him nonetheless.

When he takes off again and she looks back at her phone, another message has appeared.

_Trapped in a dressing room at the moment. It’s not the same without you here._

She bites down on her lip. _Should I call my dad and ask him to join you in there?_

She learns then that he’s discovered the ‘emojis’, not bothering to use words in his next reply.

They carry on messaging each other throughout their time apart, including lunch. Their exchanges are not exactly sophisticated, causing Rose to regularly let out bursts of laughter that sound more like snorts and annoy her mother to no end, while Tony insists that she ‘shows him!’ – she doesn’t. She convinces her mum that she has to get back to her own place, next, pretexting having some work that needs to be done before the end of the day.

From the look her mother gives her, she knows work is not what’s on her mind, but Rose suspects that after spending a few hours _shopping_ with her dad, the Doctor will appreciate not having to socialise with her family for a while.

It feels much longer than that, but she only has to wait alone for half-an-hour, using that time to do some tidying up around the place.

 _Knock knock_ , her phone eventually reads, seconds before that very sound is heard from her front door, and she resists the embarrassing urge to fling it open.

The urge to kiss him is much harder to resist.

He seems quite happy to oblige, dropping some of the bags he was still carrying to hold her closer. She’s not surprised when her kissing him soon turns into him hugging her, squeezing her tightly as he breathes her deep, as if they’d been apart for days instead of hours.

It sure felt like it.

“We need to get you a key,” she speaks against his shoulder, and he relaxes his hold on her, enough to look at her. “You really shouldn’t’ve to knock to come in here.”

This statement leads to a bit more kissing, right there in the doorway, until they move inside, struggling with bringing in all of his bags – in part because he’s still holding on to his brand new phone, hindering his movements.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Rose says, extending a hand toward the device, which he shares with her. She inspects it briefly; there’s nothing remarkable about it, a typical smartphone from this universe. “Have you tried taking selfies yet?”

She’s only teasing, smiling at his frown.

“I don’t do ‘selfies’,” he declares.

“This was the last time you ever got to say that,” she replies, already pressing herself to his side and holding up his phone, the picture taken before he has time to protest.

The result doesn’t disappoint, his scowl as deep as her grin is broad, causing her to laugh brightly. She hands him back the phone, then, cupping his scruffy jaw and kissing his cheek affectionately, before looking at the bags scattered at their feet.

“Gotta say, ’m all kind of impressed and a bit jealous that he managed to make you get so much stuff,” Rose admits. “How much of it do you actually like, though?”

When she looks back up at him, he grimaces again, ruffling the hair at the back of his head. “Uh…about a third of it, maybe? I didn’t try it all on. There was a lot of grabbing things and hoping for the best.”

There is a pause. “Any…suits?” She asks.

He nods shortly. “We went to a tailor. I chose a couple. They won't be ready for a few days, though.”

She knows from his tone alone that this had been an odd experience for him, although she cannot tell if he’s feeling positive about it. She could nag, but decides to let it go for now.

“Showtime, then!” She announces.

He frowns again. “Showtime?”

“An ancient human custom,” she explains with a smirk. “When someone goes on a shopping spree, it’s mandatory for them to try it all on for their significant other, so they can decide together what should be kept and what needs to be binned, or exchanged.”

“Significant other,” he repeats. “That’s a good one,” he says with a smile, which quickly turns into another scowl. “Not sure how I feel about having to repeatedly change my clothes again, though.”

She presses her chest against his. “C’mon,” she says softly with a teasing smile, her hands dropping to his belt, slowly undoing it. “It’s good fun. Might even take off some of my own clothes as a reward.” Her tongue briefly peeks between her teeth.

He makes an indecisive sound, although he’s definitely tempted, already leaning forward to kiss her, but Rose steps back towards the couch. “You’re gonna have to earn it.”

Even if he used to pick his clothes from a sentient wardrobe, she _knows_ he’s done things like this before, at least after each regeneration, or every time he visited a time period that required him to dress into more appropriate outfits. She’s hoping that turning this into something more light-hearted will help him relax when it comes to wearing regular human clothes.

The Doctor carries on pouting with a disgruntled grimace, obviously unsettled by this unfamiliar human custom of hers, but he picks up the bags, in the end, the lure of her wearing fewer clothes apparently too hard to resist.

“I’m only doing a few…” she hears him mumble as he heads for the bedroom.

Rose puts some music on as he changes, nothing suggestive – she doesn’t think he would get the reference anyway, more groovy than anything else, the slow beats and guitar chords filling up the room.

When he comes back and remains some distance from her, letting her take him in, all she can think about is... _endearing_. The clothes themselves look…good, a nice combination of colours, different enough from the jeans and t-shirts she’s gotten used to seeing him in these past few days. What captivates her much more than the outfit itself is him, the way he stands with barely concealed awkwardness, hands deep in the pockets of his trousers, the hairless part of his cheeks slightly pink.

She brings her gaze up to his, and aware of how uncertain he feels about this, she gives him a bright smile, before biting down on her lip, using her foot to kick off one of her shoes. “Definitely a keeper.”

He’s much swifter to change after that, having realised just how _slowly_ she intends on discarding of her clothes. She approves of most of the items he shows her, overall, only cringing a little at one particularly obnoxious looking shirt and a pair of trousers that simply do not fit him.

Still, after quite a few back and forth , she’s only taken off her shoes, socks and trousers, and she can tell he’s getting impatient, especially after her legs become exposed. A look crosses his face before he goes to change again, the kind that usually means he's up to something.

When he comes back less than a minute later, he’s not changed at all.

He’s added a layer, in the form of a simple grey hoodie.

“Oh,” she says, or rather breathes out.

 _That_ , she loves. A lot.

“You do still like those, then,” he says, way too casually.

“Never said I didn’t,” she replies quietly.

“Good,” he says, opening a bag she’s just noticed he brought with him. He holds out another hoodie of a similar colour, then, definitely smaller in size, unfolding it to show her the back of it.

There’s a cartoon of two chips drawn on it with the words _French Fries_ written under it, both _fries_ dressed up in what is supposed to be French clothes, one of them even sporting a little moustache and a beret.

“I saw it and…well. It made me think of you.” When she still doesn’t say anything, he squints his eyes, warm colours creeping up his face again. “You don’t have to wear it.”

Rose extends a hand, and he comes closer, holding out the hoodie. She ignores it, grabbing at his own instead, briefly noting how soft the fabric is. She herself isn’t so soft, pulling him down onto the couch, flipping them over until she’s straddling him, the Doctor looking up at her with both eyebrows raised in surprise.

“This worked better than I anticipated,” he admits, his voice already hoarser and slightly breathless, Rose having discarded of her shirt, now reaching behind her to unhook her bra. “Waaaay better.”

But Rose is in no mood to talk, kissing him hard while pressing herself to him, making her intentions clear. He catches up quickly enough, going as far as remaining quiet for her, something he still struggles to do at times. Soon, she’s completely naked again, while they’ve only moved (not even _re_ moved) the necessary items from him.

And again, they are quite swift and to the point.

“This cannot possibly be healthy,” the Doctor mumbles into her hair, a few minutes later.

“What?” She asks, just as breathless, not yet able nor willing to push herself off him, or to move in any way. “The sex?”

“Oh, the sex in itself is absolutely fine,” he quickly says. “I’m more concerned about the frequency of it. Concerned and a bit baffled.”

Rose smiles, even if he can't see it. “Thought you were an expert at this,” she says. “Som’thing you said once, about having…‘perfected’ a few things over the course of centuries. I take it Time Lords didn’t do it as often, then?”

He actually lets out a tired chuckle. “That is a gross understatement. We _could_ do it, but it wasn’t as…appealing. As superior as our physiology might have been, it definitely wasn’t adapted for this kind of frequency, so I’m actually grateful for the human in me in this case. Time Lord me would not be able to keep up.”

As his words sink in, the silence that settles between them is _heavy_. Rose knows what he meant, and how he meant it.

It still doesn’t come out quite right.

“Rose?” He eventually asks, his voice low and hesitant, and she hums her answer against his shoulder, forcing her muscles to relax again. “Why don’t you wear hoodies anymore?”

She can't say she's surprised by his curiosity, or his focus on her choices of clothes, given his own recent struggles. He obviously didn’t buy in her claim that she’d just grown out of them.

“After Canary Wharf... All my hoodies were on the TARDIS,” she admits, quietly. “The hoodies, and everything else I owned or...cared about. I know they were just clothes, but…they were my clothes. They were part of my life with you. I didn’t struggle as much as you when I eventually had to go buy myself a new wardrobe but…I physically couldn’t look at one of those without going catatonic for a while.”

“Oh.”

She finally pushes against his chest to look at him. “’s fine,” she reassures him. “You know all those strategies I keep telling you about? I’ve got my own. I’ve learned to deal. Obviously,” she tugs at the soft fabric. “That hoodie fits you a little too well, actually.”

He stares at her, slowly bringing a hand up, his thumb brushing the flushed skin of her cheek. “You still don't have to wear the one I got you,” he says in that same low voice.

In response, she starts looking for said hoodie, remembering he was still holding it when she'd pinned him to the back of the couch. Sure enough, she finds it under her discarded shirt, picking it up.

She swiftly passes it over her head, her hands automatically sinking into the front pocket, a gesture from the past that makes her feel much younger.

In contradiction, the look in his eyes as he stares at her makes her feel like she's seeing every single year of this long life he remembers living.

“Look at us,” Rose says quietly. “We match.”

The small smile that soon lights up his face eventually reaches his eyes, too, making him look a few centuries younger, his hand coming up to her face again, pulling her down.

“That we do,” he whispers against her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you’ve enjoyed the overload of fluff and shameless fan service. Not to worry anyone, but I usually indulge whenever I know there's angst around the corner :-))) Not sure when I'll update next, it will depend on how I cope with typing an entire chapter on a tablet hahaaa! 
> 
> Before I let you go, I must share this picture with you. It not only helps with visualising some things, it will also brighten your existence. To say it has inspired many things in this story would be an understatement. Bless you, DT.
> 
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> Feedback is <3


	6. VI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Doctor opens his eyes and looks at his reflection, feeling almost…detached, as if he was watching himself from the outside, barely able to recognise the man he’s staring at. He bears little resemblance to the Doctor he used to be only a few weeks ago, so far off from the neat suits, smooth skin and perfect hairstyle’."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so busy with Real Life at the moment, I actually got up at 6am this morning *just* so I could spend a couple of hours working on editing this chapter without interruptions. I'm only saying this to try and convey how hard it is for me to properly sit down and consistently work on this story right now, despite being ridiculously inspired to do so. Do excuse any typo or oddities, I tried my best xD
> 
> I remain so grateful for your support and encouragements, on any story from this series. Thank you :')

**VI.**

Rose is not a violent person.

There was a time in her life when she genuinely saw herself as a bit of a pacifist, choosing the path of nonviolence every single time. She hadn’t been able to remain this naïve, unfortunately. Her views changed as she grew older and tougher, became a little more bleak and broken. She still sees the good in people, whether they like it or not, but she also knows how ugly people can be – humans and aliens alike. Nonviolence remains her preferred course of action, but that overprotective streak she’s inherited from her mother has caused her to act somewhat harshly when her instincts kick in.

Hence her decision to stay away while the Doctor is being tested on, as she’s not entirely sure she can trust herself to watch someone repeatedly sink needles into his veins without that person inexplicably finding themselves nursing a broken nose.

She skips lunch, her stomach too knotted to be able to eat. About an hour after everyone comes back from their break, she gives up any pretence she had left about being patient, and finally steps into the elevator that will take her down to where he’s been all day. She’s quickly directed towards a room she knows well, having spent a non-negligible amount of hours in there herself, back when she was training for her jumps.

She’s therefore not surprised when she steps into the room and finds him on a familiar treadmill. From the warm colours on his face and the amount of sweat trickling down his skin and darkening his Torchwood-issued ‘sport’ outfit, he’s been on it for a while.

The instant she enters his line of sight, his flushed face splits into a grin, and he manages a breathless “Hello!”, almost tripping over his feet as he loses his focus.

Rose comes closer to the machine, her smile matching his own, leaning forward with her arms crossed against the front of the treadmill. “How’s that prolonged physical strain going for you?”

He lets out an odd noise, like a choked up snort. “Somehow I keep thinking it would be going even better if you’d let me rest properly last night.”

“Mmm…” she muses with a tilt of her head, pursing her lips. “’t’s all a bit hazy, but I’m pretty sure you’re the one who woke me up.”

They joke and banter the way they often do, despite the two of them knowing exactly why he’d woken her up, last night. He might be sleeping a lot more than he did when he was a Time Lord, he’s yet to go two nights without being plagued with what seems to be extremely unpleasant nightmares. She’s often stirred from sleep before he does, and even when she’s not, he usually seeks her out in the aftermath.

“In my defense, you were lying next to me _naked_ ,” he carries on light-heartedly. “What was I supposed to do, ignore you? How rude of you to even suggest such a thing.” When she smiles that tongue-touched smile he’s always had a weakness for, he nearly pouts. “Did you come here hoping to distract me?” He somehow sounds even more winded than he did thirty seconds ago. “If so, you are succeeding brilliantly.”

Rose bites down on her lip, his gaze dropping to her mouth, before moving back up to her eyes. “I just…missed you,” she admits with a small shrug, feeling her face warm up. Before his smile can turn smug, she straightens up a little, asking in a quieter tone: “How was it?”

He lets out another non-committal sound. “Uncomfortable,” he answers with his next exhale. “Yet again, I’d be worried about my psychological health if I’d found it anything but.”

Rose’s desire to grab his hand and drag him away from this room and this building altogether flares up again, which translates in her scowling a little. “Got long left?”

The Doctor shrugs, or the equivalent of a shrug while running on a treadmill. “Not a clue. Until they’ve got enough of whatever those things are tracking I suppose,” he says, indicating the various sensors stuck to him with a sweep of his hand. “How was your morning?”

She tells him about it, and it sounds as tedious as it felt. The only interesting part of it had been dealing with and trying to appease one particularly cross alien currently stuck on Earth.

“Is this how you talk about me to your co-workers?” He asks, a smile in his voice.

“Nah,” she replies, just as teasingly. “I refer to you as my ‘alien-slash-human hybrid boyfriend with an interesting range of fluctuating emotions’.”

“Nice,” he says. “Good to know we’ve reached the pet-naming phase of our relationship, although yours was a tad long. Pumpkin.”

“No,” she shuts that one down at once.

“Sweetie pie?”

“Please stop.”

“Honey bun.”

“You do realise all of those are food related.”

“I skipped lunch,” he defends himself.

A door opens on the other side of the room, a head peeking out, followed by the rest of the body. “You can stop now.”

The Doctor immediately slows down as the scientist approaches them, soon stopping altogether, hopping off the treadmill and accepting the small towel handed to him, making a quick do of drying off his face.

“Rose, let me introduce you to Alicia Bennett,” he says. “She’s part of the team who’s been handling me today, almost as well acquainted with my body as you are by now.”

Rose exchanges a look with the other woman, neither of them particularly impressed by his humorous attempt. “We’ve met before,” Rose says with a slightly patronising pout. “I _have_ been working here for some time you know. I hope he’s been good,” she says to Bennett.

“A bit chatty,” she admits with a pointed look towards the Doctor, who scowls in affront. “I’ll be honest and admit I didn’t take in everything he babbled about.”

“Few of us do,” Rose says with a pinched smile, ignoring the Doctor’s somewhat offended ‘ _Oi_!’. “Can he go, now?”

“We’ve done everything we could think about at the moment, although we might have to redo this part of the physical. The data we were collecting became skewed the moment you entered the room, from heartbeat to blood pressure. It’s sort of sweet,” she adds when they both pull at their ear in a perfectly synchronised move of mild discomfort. “How long have you been dating?”

“Well,” the Doctor says with a sharp tilt of his head. “Depends on your definition of ‘dating’. There was some chips eating involved a few years and universes ago.”

“Years, uh?” Bennett says. “I wish my husband still was that into me after years.”

“Oh, the physical intimacy is much more recent,” the Doctor corrects her, before letting out a pained _humph!_ , Rose’s elbow having collided with his ribs. “What did I do now?” He asks, his voice high with indignation.

“ _This_ is the kind of stuff you don’t share with people,” she reminds him sternly.

He scoffs, dramatically rubbing at his ribs. “You should have heard some of the questions they’ve been asking. This is _tame_.”

“He’s been extremely candid and transparent,” Bennett confirms with a perfectly composed smile, and Rose’s cheeks burn.

“What are your initial conclusions, then?” The Doctor asks. Although his tone remains light-hearted, Rose knows better.

“That you are a healthy, smart and rather witty individual. Anything more scientifically based will have to wait until we’ve looked at everything properly, like I’ve told you before.”

“Smooth,” he says, and Bennett smirks again, before she begins walking back toward the door she’d emerged from.

“I’ll get out of your way. Just leave everything on that desk over there when you’re ready to leave the room.” And she disappears.

The instant she does, his smile falters almost completely, some tension already back in his frame. Unable not to, Rose reaches out for him, burying one of her hands in his hair at the back of his head.

He looks down at her, his brow lifted in mild surprise. “I’m sticky,” he points out.

She gives a faint shrug of her shoulder with a smirk of her own. “So?”

“So?” He repeats, already frowning again. “Do you really want me to go over the whole ‘moist’ thing again? I know you’re being supportive, and I’m greatly appreciative of how far you’ll go to show compassion, but I’ve just spent a non-negligible amount of time on this dreaded contraption, which has caused me to sweat in places I didn’t even know I could sweat, so, as much as I enjoy the feel of any part of you touching any part of me, I really, truly, honestly would not hold it against you if you decided to step out and stay away from me until I got myself into a sh – ”

The last of his tirade dissolves into a hoarse, gasping noise, shutting him up the way she often shuts him up – by making part of her touch part of him. This time, she’s used her grip on his hair to pull him down, aiming for his neck, mouth pressed to his damp skin, her lips parted as she lets her tongue rest upon his pulsing point, tasting the salt of his sweat.

Beside perspiration, his entire body is emanating waves of heat, along with a scent that is to be expected given the kind of physical activity he was put through, musky, and all his. All physical responses Rose is well-acquainted with by now, anything but repulsed by it.

She’s aware that this isn’t the time nor the place to be doing this, any of this. But he’s just spent several hours being touched by impersonal hands, no matter how professionally it was done, tested on and looked at as if he was some kind of interesting specimen.

Her instinct is to counter it all out, to make him feel good, and loved. There’s also a bit of possessiveness going on, there; as her mum would say, she’s a tad territorial.

Against her, he’s not only shut up, he’s actively reacted to her, his arms locked around her frame, pinning her to him as familiar shivers travel the length of his body.

“You do realise they’re still cataloguing every reaction from me in that room of theirs,” he breathes out in her hair, genuinely bewildered.

“So am I,” Rose replies against his neck, and he lets out a sound that is somewhere between a laughter and a gasp when he feels her tongue on his skin again, some part of him wondering what happened to ‘no physicality’ in places such as this one, although to be honest, he personally doesn’t mind it at all.

He’s missed her, too, while he was being prodded and poked, an ordeal that wasn’t the most pleasant, even if the people doing the poking and prodding turned out to be pleasant enough. But he’s missed her, and he loves her, which is a bit of a conundrum when they’re currently deep in the  bowels of Torchwood’s headquarter, surrounded by employees.

She seems to be channelling her younger self today, though, acting more like the Rose Tyler who rolls her eyes at authority figures and delights in being a bit of a rule-breaker.  

The Rose Tyler who happily tricks her way around conundrums.

Her breath, that deliciously warm breath of hers, travels up his neck, until it’s tickling his ear, her teeth nibling at his lobe . “Got your sonic nearby?” When he nods, a bit sloppily, she adds: “Feel like getting stealthy again?”

Less than ten minutes later, the Doctor is relearning the meaning of ‘getting stealthy with Rose Tyler’. This is not the ‘ _let’s sneak into a store to retrieve some forgotten items_ ’ kind of stealthy.

This kind of stealthy involves using his sonic screwdriver to disable a handful of security cameras as they sneak around a few corridors, before slipping into a small, vacant storeroom, sonic-ing the lock so no one but himself can open that door.

She’s made it clear that she’s the one in charge of what’s acceptable and what isn’t when it comes to doing things like this, and if she thinks  _this_  is somehow acceptable. 

Well.

He’s aware that she may only have had ‘snogging’ in mind when she dragged him in this glorified closet, and he likes to think he would have been absolutely fine with a bit of snogging himself. However, as it so often happens whenever they engage in innocent snogging with barely any groping of any kind, it hardly ever stays that way.

Innocent snogging quickly escalates to him pushing her back into a corner so that she’s tightly pinned between him and the walls, warm bodies squished together. There’s no hiding how much he’s responding to her at this point; maybe she doesn’t _mean_ to move against him the way she does, then, but the fact is, she does move, the friction causing his hips to push forward in response, and she shudders against him as her fingers twist in his hair and his body vibrates with need, her exhales hot against his lips.

He wants to tell her…how much he wants her, how much he aches, physically, mentally, emotionally _aches_ for her…nothing but a slave to her and the sheer pleasure and contentment she makes him feel, over and over again. 

But words feel crude, unworthy, incapable of conveying the true nature of his longing, and so he does it the only way he can, through touch and intense focus, all of his thoughts and desire directed on her and her alone.

He senses her responding in kind, communicating without a word, their next moves swift and synchronised, so that when he makes to push her off the ground, she’s already pulling herself up, locking their bodies in just the right way. Neither cares about the layers of clothes separating them because every time he sways against her, she sways with him, increasing that perfect pressure and its addicting heat that swells and spreads, Rose gasping into his mouth as she uses her grip on him to move against him. When he looks at her, all he sees is the familiar, hazy heat of her gaze, her cheeks flushed deep in arousal, mesmerised by the feel of her seeking out her pleasure while increasing his own.  

He ends up with a hand inside her shirt, having pushed up the fabric of her bra to cup her breast, his face pressed to her neck. The feel of his tongue on her sensitive skin, combined with the squeeze of his fingers as he physically pushes against her, as well as with the instinctive press of his mind on hers, leads to her swift release; she comes with a hoarse cry, the sound somewhat muffled into his shoulder, his own groan stifled against her neck as he follows her.

Given the state of their muscles, they more or less crumple to the floor in a somewhat sitting position, legs entangled, leaning heavily against one another as their breathing slows down. He’s beyond needing a shower now, but he’ll be damned if he moves before he absolutely needs to.

“So _that’s_ what you humans call ‘a quickie’,” he eventually speaks into her hair.

She lets out a grunt against his shoulder. “This’s not a quickie, Doctor. For starters, we still have our clothes on.” 

“Eh, semantics, really. End result’s the same, wouldn’t you say?” 

She lets out an embarrassed groan. “I can’t believe we just did that.” She sounds mortified. 

It won’t do.

“Wanna hear something funny?” He asks. “They actually asked me for a similar sample not two hours ago, and I refused. What a waste of a perfectly usable specimen.” 

There is a pause, before Rose’s laughter fills up the small room. She’s cupping his face, then, kissing his jaw the way she does, before nuzzling her nose in the damp crook of his neck. “You’re an idiot,” she says, in the tone of voice she normally uses for ‘ _I love yous’_ , so he’s not too upset about it. 

“I’m serious, though,” he says, his voice too high. “Gave me a cup and told me to fill it up, and they weren’t asking for urine either. They’d already gotten that one from me first thing this morning.” 

She pulls away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?” She asks. “I mean, I get that it’s a bit awkward and all, but…aren’t you curious?” 

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I suppose I am curious, but it wasn’t…right. The only thing they’re going to be able to tell me by testing this particular body fluid of mine is whether or not I’m humanly fertile. I felt like this shouldn’t be something I was told about until you and I had a conversation about it first. And I mean, a proper conversation. Not just us casually mentioning it while on the floor and sex-dazed, as it always seems to happen, bizarrely enough.” 

There is a pause, and quite a heavy one at that, too.  

“We should talk about it but…yeah,” she breathes out. “Not… _here_.” Her already flushed face darkens slightly, still obviously flustered at the thought of what they’ve just done. “Let’s put a pin in it, yeah?” She adds quietly, meeting his eyes and giving him a small smile.

He smiles back, pretending to grab something out of thin air, before miming writing on it, eventually ‘pinning it’ in the empty space in front of them.

“The  _‘Baby Talk’_  has been pinned,” he announces, soon feeling her lips upon his jaw again, and he leans into her touch, closing his eyes.

As his endorphin levels begin to fall, another kind of stir makes itself known, within his skull this time. He’s not surprised when his body tenses at the ache throbbing through his brain, and her fingers curl in his hair in response.

“Have you told them about this?” She asks quietly near his ear, and he nods.

“Full body scan,” he replies simply. “With a particular focus on the brain.”

They don’t say anything else, her fingers moving slowly through his hair, the silence eventually interrupted by the chirping of her phone. She moves against him to extract the device from her pocket, reading the screen, her brow furrowed.

“Problem?” He asks.

She grimaces. “Yeah, a bit. My ‘uncooperative alien’ I mentioned earlier? He’s getting a bit restless, verging on reckless.”

She explains the situation in a low voice, how that individual (‘Nractyl’ _)_ has found himself trapped in this corner of the galaxy when the laws of physics started acting up from Davros’ doings, and how he’s been trying to get back home ever since. Unfortunately, everything now being back to how it should be after the dimensional retro closure, there is little to no chance for him to succeed.

“I could take a look at the numbers,” the Doctor offers when she’s done briefing him. “If you want.”

She rests a hand on his forehead again, feeling the comforting warmth of her palm upon his skin, seeing a familiar concern in her eyes.

“Headache’s not that bad,” he reassures her, and he means it. “I doubt I can do much, from everything you said but…” He shrugs. “Maybe I can help.”

It’s been a while since he got to help anyone.

She lets her nails scratch his scruff, her lips curled in a soft, understanding smile, until she bites on her lip, her cheeks darkening again. “Might be a good idea for us to stop by the shower room, first.”

There is a pause.

“Separately,” he states, and she nods.

“Separately.”

…

The dream, like most of his dreams since he was reborn in this body, is unpleasant.

It loses consistency the moment he wakes up, although it doesn’t lose its grip on him, lingering in the form of a heavy weight pressing down upon his lungs. Dread rushes through him, suddenly _convinced_ he’s lost the ability to understand or speak Gallifreyan.

When he tries breathing deeply in an attempt at calming himself down, only to find that he cannot breathe at all, dread turns into panic. His instincts successfully kick-started, the Doctor’s entire body floods with chemicals, rolling off the bed and scrambling to his feet as he gulps for air.

He goes straight for the en-suite bathroom, his stomach churning and twisting. He doesn’t remember turning on the tap and splashing his face, yet here he is, clinging to the edge of the sink with wet fingers while water drips from his face, the sounds of his laboured breathing drown out by the water still gushing from the tap.

He shuts it off, eventually, glancing at himself in the mirror. Without any source of light beside that of a blue dawn creeping in through the bathroom’s window, he’s little more than a dark shape at the centre of a bluish-black rectangle.

He thinks of Midnight and that ill-fated bus trip to the Sapphire Waterfall only weeks ago, reminded of that empty entity that had taken over him…how it had taken his voice and his words and nearly his life.

He slams the mirror’s light switch with a shaky hand, wincing at the sudden brightness, closing his eyes shut as he goes back to holding on to the sink’s edges, his one heart hammering the way it often is, these days. He begins reciting familiar words and limericks under his breath, hundreds upon hundreds of sounds he’d learned as a young child, his mother tongue anything but gone; still, there’s no harm in checking.

He doesn’t need to be a genius to understand what’s triggered this latest bout of anxiety. He is unfortunately cleverer than most, which makes his thought process painfully detailed and often accurate.

Half a day ago, he’d been convoked and told about the conclusions that were drawn from the various tests he’d taken earlier this week. While he’d been remarkably good at convincing himself and maybe even Rose that he was _fine_ with what was said in that meeting of sort, his subconscious apparently decided otherwise.

This knee-jerk reaction makes little to no sense. He’s been unpleasantly aware of how much more human than Time Lord this body is from the moment he properly woke up in it.

Something in him clearly hoped he would be proved wrong, though. Hoped that looking at his cells at a molecular level might provide evidence that there was…more. Some latent energy, maybe, awaiting but a spark to seep out and spread, infusing his flesh with more of his former self.

But there is no latent energy.

He is what he’s always known himself to be: part human, part Time Lord, with a definite emphasis on the human. A weak hybrid with some ‘ _unusual brain patterns’_.

The Doctor opens his eyes and looks at his reflection, feeling almost…detached, as if he was watching himself from the outside, barely able to recognise the man he’s staring at. He bears little resemblance to the Doctor he used to be only a few weeks ago, so far off from the neat suits, smooth skin and perfect hairstyle.

Short-sleeved grey shirt sticking to his damp skin, loose pyjama bottoms...Even his face is different, most of its lower half now covered with hair that is only getting thicker, the longer he waits to shave, while the dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes seem to be etching themselves deeper into his skin with every restless night.

He’s had to adapt to new faces and new bodies many times before, but this is something else.

The face and the body are the same, yet everything’s…askew, from his physical appearance to his day to day life.

He wants to pretend he’s alright with what he’s doing, kept somewhat busy by being given reports to look over and consult on, although he only sees glimpses of everything. He doesn’t have the ‘proper clearance’ yet to be allowed to join in anything or meet with anyone outside Torchwood employees. And if he’s being honest with himself, the thought of being cleared into doing this full time doesn’t exactly thrill him either.

He snaps out of this dreary thought pattern at a familiar sensation, tingles prickling at the back of his neck, certain that Rose is going to enter the room a mere moment before she does. It’s not the first time it happens, this week, this anticipated awareness of her.

It _is_ the first time he realises what it might mean, though.

He closes his eyes as she joins him, unable to bear seeing the look on her face when she takes him in. Despite his pounding heart and trembling muscles, the moment she enters his space and touches him, something deep in him loosens. Her palm briefly rests between his shoulder blades, undoubtedly feeling how damp his shirt is. Her hand moves, up, then down, slow and soothing, before she wraps her arm around his middle, and he feels her leaning her weight against him, feels the familiar pressure of her head upon his shoulder.

The Doctor reopens his eyes and meets her gaze in the mirror.

She’s only wearing a shirt – one of his, the colour of it nearly white compared to the dark fabric of his outfit. Light clothes, pale skin, blond hair…He thinks of the yin and the yang, of that black drop wrapped around a white one, or the other way around.

She’s always complemented him, his Rose, from their very first hours together, her bright smiles and kind nature piercing through his pain, while being by his side caused some of that softness to ebb away, for a spot of darkness to take root, like a black hole sucking at her gentle soul.

A black hole with shifting faces.

She doesn’t ask him if he’s okay, doesn’t ask about his most recent nightmare either. She’s there with him, willing to help him whenever he chooses to let her in, the way she was yesterday, back at Torchwood.

Having her sitting by his side while he was told what they already knew had been difficult. He’d felt like a patient being told he had some rare, incurable disease. He doesn’t, though.

He’s absolutely fine.

(Although there is no cure for mortality)

“Tea?” Rose eventually asks, because tea can cure at least _some_ things.

Against all odds, the Doctor sees his reflection smiling faintly, giving her a short nod.

She pushes herself up on her toes to press a kiss to that favourite spot of hers, between his ear and jaw. There is nothing inherently sexual in the way she does it, but as always, his nerve endings don’t care about her intentions, successfully pulling him back into his body; he’s too aware of her lips upon his skin, of the press of her breasts against his shoulder, causing him to shiver even as she releases him and steps out of the bathroom.

He doesn’t follow her immediately, drying off his face, before going for what he still refers to as her dresser. He opens one of the drawers she proclaimed to be ‘his’ over a week ago, retrieving a pair of socks, extracting the small piece of TARDIS he’s carefully wrapped in there, something he hasn’t done much since they’ve arrived in London. If Rose has wondered about it, she’s never asked. 

He joins her in the kitchen, sitting down at the table as she busies herself with the kettle. She eventually sets a steaming cup in front of him, after adding quite a few spoons of sugar to it, before taking the seat opposite him, her eyes following the movements of his fingers as they slowly turn the chunk of coral around. 

“It’s dormant,” he speaks at last, quietly. 

She takes a sip of her tea. “Any way to…wake it up?” 

He nods slowly, carefully putting the piece down on the table between them. “I didn’t think I was going to be able to do it, which is why I didn’t really…try, until now.” She carries on sipping her tea, waiting for him to continue.  “They require telepathy,” he explains. “Once they’re fully grown and functional, they need a proper console to do what you want them to do, but this early in their growth…they need a telepathic connection.” 

Rose sets her cup down. He feels her eyes on him even as he keeps his own gaze on the piece of coral.  

“Is it…is telepathy something you can do?” She asks. 

Back when she was his travelling companion, he knew she’d had a vague awareness of his telepathic abilities, as it wasn’t something he often used anymore. Being the only telepathic being in most places he went to made keeping his abilities ‘turned on’ more gritting than anything else, all too aware of how alone he was. The connection to his TARDIS never required much from him; they’d been a pair for so long, it just…was.

“I don’t…know,” he admits, looking at her. “I thought the ability was gone, but you’ve heard what they said, about those headaches and my ‘unusual brain patterns’.”

Bennett and Co. had gone as far as suggesting that the headaches might be caused by his brain still working on ‘fitting in’ everything that is supposed to fit in there, maybe even trying to develop the proper connections to allow some of his old abilities to resurface.

He’s too worn out at the moment to allow himself to get his hopes up.

“If telepathy’s necessary to get it…kick-started,” Rose says, tentatively. “Why did he…why would he give it you?” 

As always when this other _him_ is mentioned in any way, the tension that grows between them is not exactly comfortable. Rose forces herself to maintain eye contact, even as the Doctor shakes his head.

“I don’t think he realised how human this body is. It might have been a genuine oversight, too. He had a lot on his mind.”

Rose looks down at her mug, trying to relax her shoulders as her insides ache the way they always do when she thinks back to those last moments on that beach.

“If they’re right, the headaches could be linked to a number of things beside telepathy,” he eventually speaks again, and she looks back at him. “I’ve been getting those odd, ‘hyper sensitive’ episodes of sorts. When it happens, it almost feels like some of my Time Lord senses are back, even if it never lasts. And there’s…well.” 

She tilts her head, intrigued by the odd look on his face. “What?” 

“There’s you,” he says, and she blinks, confused. “Time Lords can…bond, with specific people,” he explains, cautiously. “It only tended to happen between Time Lords, because of their shared telepathic abilities but…”

He ruffles the hair at the back of his head as he averts his eyes, looking achingly vulnerable.

“I feel really connected to you,” he admits, quietly. “And I do mean… _really_ connected.” He meets her eyes again, causing a shiver to run down her spine. “I’d assumed it was simply due to the fact that, well, we connect a lot, and quite intensely. But I’m starting to think it might go beyond a regular bond between lovers.” 

Rose feels her cheeks warm up at the thought of how well they connect indeed, of how responsive she is to him…in ways she’d never been responsive to anyone before. Her behaviour alone in that storeroom a few days ago…this is not something she would have done with any of her previous partners, and there was no way any of them could have gotten her this worked up, so quickly and efficiently.

But the Doctor…he has a way of getting under her skin.

It’s his turn to tilt his head in question at her silent reactions to his admission. “’t’s definitely…intense, the two of us,” she says. “I just thought it was because of it being…with you, you know?” 

He nods slowly. “And it might be all it is,” he shrugs. “Maybe I’m reading into things. I’ve never been part-human before, and I’ve never been in love the way I am with you.” 

She wonders if he has any idea the effect he has on her, when he says those things with such honesty and truth.

In moments like this one, she has no trouble whatsoever accepting the idea that there might be an actual bond between them, nearly feeling it physically stretching from him to her, wrapped so tightly around both their hearts that she can almost feel the beats of his own from across the table.

There is an unmistakable sound from the bedroom, as her phone rings, signalling a call from a work related number.

Rose frowns, checking her watch again, confirming that it’s barely past 5am. ‘Off the clock’ calls were not unusual only weeks ago when they were perfecting the cannon and their incoming data changed so drastically that she had to be ready at a moment’s notice, to the point where she didn’t even go home anymore, occasionally crashing in a bunk-bed in one of the break rooms.

There had been no need for those anymore since she’d made it back to this universe, though, which is why she gives the Doctor a vague shrug and a confused look before leaving the kitchen to go get her phone.

 _“We’ve got an Amber Code situation with Nractyl,”_ the agent on the end of the line announces. _“You need to come in ASAP.”_

“Crap,” she breathes out, already going to her dresser as she takes off her shirt, making a quick do of getting dressed, putting herself on autopilot as she does so, all the while getting more information on the situation.

The Doctor joins her at some point, seeing him from the corner of her eyes as she navigates through both the bathroom and the bedroom, feeling his gaze on her, aware that he’s listening to every word of her conversation.

“I’ve got to go,” she tells him somewhat distractedly as soon as she hangs up, finishing attaching her gear. “You’ll be alright taking the tube to Torchwood?”

When he doesn’t answer, she refocuses properly on him. He looks uncharacteristically stern, the kind of look she hasn’t seen in a while, despite the flurry of emotions she’s seen him go through these past three weeks.

“I could also go with you,” he says simply, and she frowns at how tense he’s become. “I got the big of it. Nractyl is causing some trouble, isn’t he? Tinkering with variables he shouldn’t be tinkering with.”

He did try and help with this particular case, this week, but his inputs has been limited, unfortunately. She hates to shut him down again, something she seems to be doing too often whenever he offers to help with work, but her hands are tied.

“He’s on edge,” she confirms, putting on her jacket, not quite able to look at him. “Might turn nasty if we don’t put an end to it quickly. And…you know I would take you if it was up to me, but you don’t have – ”

“The proper clearance,” he finishes for her, tersely. “I’m somewhat confused, though. What kind of ‘clearance’ is necessary to try and talk someone out of a harmful situation, exactly?” When she doesn’t answer right away, he adds: “Is it the kind of clearance that involves being able to use that gun you’ve attached to your hip?”

Rose briefly bites on the inside of her cheek, before meeting his gaze again. “Yeah, something like that, actually.”

There’s a new look settling on his face, the kind she’s not very fond of. “Negotiations and guns don’t mix well.” His tone is as patronising as she expected it to be.

“Which is why we don’t plan on going in with our guns blazing,” she answers. “But we cannot go into a situation like this one unharmed either. He’s got a history of violence. We need to be able to defend ourselves.”

“With guns,” he repeats.

“With whatever means necessary to make sure no one gets hurt.”

“Doesn’t ‘getting shot’ fall under the ‘getting hurt’ category?”

Rose takes a deep breath. The ‘gun’ issue was bound to arise, eventually. She’d travelled with him long enough to know what his stance is on weapons, a stance she’d shared for many years and for quite some time in this universe, too.

But reality had caught up with her, and taught her the hard way that she had to make adjustments and compromises.

This is a conversation she can’t afford to have right now, unfortunately pressed by the unfolding matter at hand. She’s spent enough time with this half-human, half-Time Lord version of the Doctor to know he’s just as stubborn as he used to be, especially on issues like this one.

She walks closer to him, forcing her face to relax into something softer. “I’m not dismissing your opinion,” she says quietly, without a hint of sarcasm. “I want to discuss this with you, I really do. But I gotta go. I’ve got a rapport with Nractyl, the kind of rapport that will hopefully mean no gun gets pulled out. The longer I stay here butting heads with you, the smaller my chances are to reason with him. I want to take you with me, but I can’t. Just…I’ll see you back at Torchwood, yeah?”

She pushes herself up to kiss his cheek, a gesture he doesn’t respond to, or not fast enough, as she quickly walks passed him, trying to ignore the clench of her throat, or the heavy weight settling in the pit of her stomach.

She’s already reached the front door when he calls her name, and she turns around.

He hasn’t moved, still standing in the bedroom’s doorway, but his cold mask has cracked, letting something rawer seep through.

“Be careful,” he says simply, his voice thicker than it should be.

Rose nods, swallowing hard as she steps through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, my lovelies. 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear from you ♥


	7. VII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anyone who’s done any training in diving could have told him as much: the deeper you dive, the greater your chances are at experiencing decompression sickness if you don’t stop on your way up. 
> 
> Simple physics, really, mixed with some basic biology. 
> 
> The Doctor has been sinking for some time, unaware until now that he’s gone long passed the safety depth. That’s how it feels like, today.
> 
> Like he’s going straight up without a stop."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that thing that happens when you repeatedly shake a can of coke and then open it?
> 
> That’s this chapter. (no sexual innuendos intended either, you naughty people)
> 
> I’m putting a heavy angst warning on this one, so consider yourself warned.

**VII.**

The Doctor is not used to being left behind when a crisis arises. He’s usually the one leading the rescue mission.

He decides straight away that this is one role reversal he doesn’t like much, at all.

He briefly entertains the thought of staying put at home, simply because Rose _expects_ him to be at Torchwood when she comes back. He does get dressed and takes the subway, in the end, partly because he’s over nine-hundred-and-five years old, not five, and most importantly because that is where Rose is eventually bound to be.

He’s annoyed, his wounded pride prickling, but his concern for her takes precedence over anything else. From what they’ve discussed these past few days, that Nractyl character sounds like the volatile kind, one that also happens to be eight feet tall. The Doctor had visited their home planet, in the other universe. Not a hostile race, unless put under duress, like most sentient beings.

Not _all_ sentient beings spray acid out of their wrists when particularly irritated, though.

But he’s got to trust her. She knows what she’s doing, has for some time. _Years_ have passed since he found her on Earth, and she’s spent most of those years here, training and learning to defend herself. Even if the thought of Rose firing a gun twists his stomach, he has to accept that she’s her own person, no longer his young, impressionable companion.

He’s her partner, now. Her significant other; someone who ought to have her back, even if having her back means waiting for her without getting involved.

He almost manages to keep himself busy during the first couple of hours he spends at Torchwood; he’s been given a small office earlier this week, not furnished enough to be called a real lab, but with enough equipment for him to tinker with. He spends that time running some diagnostic tests on the coral piece he’s brought along, although he’s too on edge to attempt anything else that might require more focus.

By hour three, he’s too restless to carry on with busy work. He roams the building instead, one floor after the other, figuring out which areas he’s allowed to walk through, and which ones he’s turned away from, sometimes with armed guards.

By hour four, he starts pestering employees about Rose’s team and their whereabouts. No one will tell him anything, which does not improve his mood.

By hour five, he’s become positively unpleasant, his mood so foul he manages to make an intern cry, after she’s asked him if maybe he’d like some soothing _tea_. Ten minutes later, he’s getting a phone call from Pete – who’s currently on a business trip in Morocco.

“ _I’ve received four phone calls and nine emails complaining about your behaviour this morning_ ,” Pete tells him. “ _I understand where you’re coming from, but if you don’t manage to stay put until Rose comes back, you not only won’t be allowed to see her, you’ll be asked to leave the building altogether. Don’t force me to become that person, or I’ll never hear the end of it, from neither of my girls.”_

Feeling like it would indeed be unfair on the man who’s been nothing but an ally to him, the Doctor forces himself to remain in his office after that, although his restlessness reaches critical levels.

 _They’re back_ , Pete’s eventually texts him. _I was told Rose sustained some minor injuries. She should be on the second floor up, medical yard. I’ve authorised your access._

Less than three minutes later, the Doctor is stumbling out of the elevator on the second floor, his impatience having turned into wild panic, despite Pete’s message clearly stating Rose’s injuries as being ‘minor’. In his brain, dozens of horrible scenarios have already played out, also quite convinced he won’t be able to stop himself from shouting at her the moment they’re in the same room again, badgering her about not letting him come along.

As it turns out, the moment he bursts open the door to the exam room and sees Rose sitting on the table, all of his manic energy drains out of him, feeling his limbs become oddly cottony. She’s turned her head, startled by his loud entrance, but her expression softens at the sight of him, although she doesn’t hold his gaze, swiftly turning her head away again, in an obvious attempt to conceal part of her face.

He can’t really see her left side from this angle, but from the way she’s holding herself, he can tell she’s hurting.

He walks to her on numb legs, ignoring the doctor or nurse or whatever title the person standing in front of Rose holds, forcing said person to step out of his way with a bit of a displeased noise. His eyes find the gash on her left shoulder first, recognising the unmistakable signs and smell of flesh that has been subjected to an acid burn.

He pulls out his specs, putting them on and bringing his face closer to her wound. Even through the ruined fabric of her jacket and shirt, he can tell the burn is superficial. Carrying on with ignoring the now talking man still standing behind him, the Doctor looks up at her face. She’s been hit, her cheekbone twice its normal size, partly closing her left eye – which remains fixed on a point above his shoulder.

“I’ll take it from there,” the Doctor finally says, matter-of-factly. “You can leave.”

“ _Excuse_ -me,” the other man almost splutters. “Who do you think you are? Rose needs care, I will certainly not – ”

“I am over nine-hundred-years old. I have spent seven of those nine centuries traveling through time and space, dealing with everything hostile it comprises. I can assure you I know how to treat a chemical burn and reduce swollen tissue. Now leave us.”

He’s somehow managed to make these statements sound unquestionably threatening, his voice having dropped almost an octave.

“’t’s alright, Jonas,” Rose speaks quietly. “He knows what he’s doing, you can go.”

While ‘Jonas’ makes up his mind to leave the room, the Doctor moves, too, scanning the room, swiftly opening drawers and cabinets, taking a quick inventory of everything available to him, grabbing at anything he knows he’ll need to treat her.

“We’re both gonna get in trouble for that, you know,” she points out behind him as soon as they’re alone. “I hate to pull that ‘clearance’ crap on you again, but in case you hadn’t noticed, they’re really big on regulation, here.”

“I didn’t get to help you out there,” he states, his voice still lower than usual. “I’d like to be given an opportunity to be useful today, if that’s alright with you.”

The silence that follows is only broken by him, still rummaging through a drawer to grab more sterile gauzes. He jerks around at the hissed sound she suddenly lets out, finding her attempting to remove her ruined jacket.

“Rose,” he chastises her, swiftly walking back to the exam table, dropping everything he’s collected onto a tray as she carries on with her clumsy undressing, grimacing in pain as she does. “Cutting off that sleeve would have been a more sensible choice.”

“Yeah, well, you know me and sensible choices,” she breathes out. “Never been big on those.”

The irritation he’s felt all morning flares back at her words, even as he helps her out of her jacket, thinking about how she’d actually been quite sensible a few hours ago, when she refused to have him come along ‘because it was not the proper protocol’.

“Now stop moving,” he tells her sternly once they’ve discarded of the garment, grabbing the pair of scissors he’d collected to carefully cut off the sleeve of her shirt.

Rose watches him work in silence, all of his focus directed towards her wounded arm. She can’t honestly say she’s feeling any better than she did fifteen minutes ago, but his presence alone, so close to her, is reassuring, no matter how livid he is.

This was the morning from hell, and she’s got a few bumps and bruises to prove it, along with a budding headache that is well passed its budding stage.

The next time he glances up at her face, almost unable not to, given the way she’s been staring at him, his gaze stops on her left cheek. He squints his eyes, as if only now remembering that particular injury.

“What kind of idiots do they have working here,” he states more than he asks, in his most condescending tone, already moving away again to rummage some more, soon finding what he’s looking for. He breaks the inside of the bag to accelerate the chemical reaction that will activate the cooling pack as he comes back to stand in front of her. “They should have put cold on it the moment you stepped in,” he adds, doing so himself, pressing the pack to her swollen cheek; despite his overall hostile behaviour, he’s gentle in the way he touches her.

She doesn’t miss the up-and-down of his Adam’s apple when she raises a hand to cover his over the cooling pack, just as gently. “’t’s kinda my fault, to be fair,” she admits softly. “I didn’t let them do much.”

He meets her gaze again, and she sees the conflict in his eyes behind those lenses, notes the small twitches in the muscles of his face. Without a word, he slides his fingers out from under hers, and her heart squeezes at the loss of his warmth, replaced with the cold of the ice.

He turns toward the tray, opening packages and various bottles. “Am I authorised to ask how this happened?”

Rose’s breathing hitches. She’s been remarkably good at _not_ thinking about what happened since she’s made it back, and she would rather keep it this way.

She doesn’t have much of  a choice, unfortunately, recent scenes flashing in her mind, remembering the oppressive feeling of it all more than anything else, how apathetic she’d almost become when she’d realised what had to be done.

“No matter,” the Doctor speaks again when she doesn’t answer, his focus back on her burnt arm, and she lets out a hiss of pain as he begins cleaning it.

“I was too slow,” she breathes out, staring at a point above his head, now.

Too slow, and temporarily too gullible.

 “What about Nractyl?”

The following silence is the loudest one yet.

“I shot him,” she admits. And then, deciding that she should as well be completely honest, she confirms what he’s probably figured out: “He’s dead.”

The Doctor stops moving for a few seconds, before resuming his treatment of her burn, quiet as a clam, and _tense._ The silence alone would have been enough to make her uncomfortable. When it comes to this man, she’s learnt to associate this heavy muteness and locked frame with rather negative emotions.

He’s gone as far as starting to cover up her wound, when Rose speaks, unable to let this silence stretch another minute, his wordless disapproval stinging more than any of her physical wounds.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

He nods, once. Even though he still doesn’t say anything, she feels the need to defend herself.

“He would’ve killed one of us.”

His movements halt again, his fingers resting lightly on her arm, meeting her eyes. “That you protected your team and yourself is understandable,” he says. “I’m more concerned about how…unfazed you seem to be about it.”

“ _Unfazed_?” She repeats, her heart speeding up as her own irritation sparks up. “What does that even mean?”

“Unperturbed,” he states in that unpleasant tone of voice that makes her throat ache. “Unworried. Lacking any kind of – ”

“Don’t you dare,” she stops him, having lowered her voice in quiet warning. “I’m not stupid, I know what unfazed means. I’m asking you what makes you think I’m _unfazed_ about what’s happened.”

“Body language, primarily,” he answers, and although he’s dropped the condescending tone, his voice remains sharper than it’s been in a long time. “You’re showing signs of pain, stress and weariness, along with growing frustration, but not much else.”

She almost feels her blood boiling in her veins as her frustration grows alright.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s pretend for a minute that you’ve suddenly become an expert in human emotions. What are you expecting from me, exactly? Should I be weeping about what I had to do?”

“I am not implying that you are uncaring, we both know better. But there was a time when you would have stepped in front of a Dalek to keep it from getting killed.”

Her throat is painfully tight, and she hates the characteristic burning sensation in her eyes. “That was a long time ago. I grew up,” she states.

“Yes, I can see that.”

Her self-preservation wants her to fight back, to inflict the same kind of hurt, to shove his own ruthlessness in his face, remind him that for all his righteousness and unease about her being responsible for the death of an alien, he also happens to have annihilated an entire race not three weeks ago. She knows his buttons as well as he knows hers.

She could never be this cruel, though.

“I wish I could’ve stayed this naïve,” she says instead, quietly. “I wish I still looked at the world through pink lenses, the way I did when I first travelled with you. But I don’t. I can’t. I’ve seen too much, working here.”

“Which is exactly why you should have let me come with you,” he says. “You’ve been working with them for so long, you’ve adopted their method. Again, it’s understandable. Humans are malleable and highly suggestive, keen to adapt to their environment. I’ve had centuries of experience, dealing with alien species, which gives me a wider perspective, and a more impartial stance. You know it as well as I do, you’ve seen me calm entire armies down, I could have – ”

“You could have _nothing_ ,” she cuts him off, her anger hot and sparkling, rubbed raw by his latest accusation and his myopic, big headed view of the entire human race. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re not the person you think you are either. You’re not _him_ anymore.”

Rose regrets her words the moment she says them, watching him recoil slightly as if she’d just slapped him.

She could as well have done so.

“I…” She tries, her frustration swiftly morphing into queasiness at the look on his face. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, much more quietly.

He stands there, staring at her with oddly vacant eyes. “Like how, exactly?”

She shakes her head, swallowing hard. “You know how. Don’t make me say it.”

The silence has never felt more gritting.

Across from her, he’s hung his head, a hand now up to his face, rubbing at his short beard almost distractedly.

“All I meant was, you aren’t the person you were last month,” she says, in another failed attempt at fixing her blunder, judging by the way he winces at her words.

The hand drops from his face as he raises his head, looking at a point above hers. “Yes, I think we’ve made that rather clear.”

“You’re not hearing me,” she says, sounding fiercer by the second, and a tad desperate. “Last month, you got shot by a Dalek, and you regenerated. Today, if you went out there and it happened again, you wouldn’t make it.”

He scowls in afront, shaking his head in confusion and annoyance. “Do you really have this little faith in me?”

“It’s got nothing to do with _faith_ ,” she says, incensed again, her tone harsh, now. “Your body is mostly human. You don’t have access to any of the technology you used to have access to, ‘xcept for that sonic of yours. You have little to no training in actual combat, and if you get mortally wounded, that’s it. You _die_.”

By the end of her rant, his scowl is gone – as are any remaining colour from his face. He seems to have lost any desire to argue back, looking deflated and resigned.

At the empty look in his eyes, what’s left of her irritation fizzes away.

“Look – ” she attempts, much more subdued, but he cuts her off.

“It’s fine,” he says, and her insides twist at this lie he hadn’t used with her for some time. “You’re quite right, too.” His eyes drop to her wounded arm and the gauze he’d only half-tapped to her skin. “Jonas can finish this up.”

“Doctor,” she says, but he’s already walking through the door.

…

Anyone who’s done any training in diving could have told him as much: the deeper you dive, the greater your chances are at experiencing decompression sickness if you don’t stop on your way up.

Simple physics, really, mixed with some basic biology.

The Doctor has been sinking for some time, unaware until now that he’s gone long passed the safety depth. That’s how it feels like, today.

Like he’s going straight up without a stop. And instead of slowing down, the more his conversation with Rose replays in a loop in his mind, the harder he swims.

And by conversation, he really means _argument_.

They hadn’t had many rows, back when they travelled together, but they’d always been memorable. This one ‘takes the cake’, as humans would say. He can’t decide if he’s angry or devastated. For the most part, he’s just…there.

 _You’re not him anymore_.

Well.

She’s not entirely wrong about that.

Only hours ago, he’d been thinking the same thing, unable to physically recognise himself. Except that it’d been hours ago, when he was still sinking, and he was relatively fine with the potential harm it could do to him, to go deeper and deeper.

But he’s going up, now, feeling more unhinged than he ever did during those first few hours in Norway, back when trying to focus his thoughts had been like trying to hold on to a fistful of sand.

He’s there, but he’s not _there_ there.

His skin is too tight, his clothes too heavy, and if he could claw each of his facial hair out with his nails, he would not hesitate.

He stops by a small supermarket on his way back, and buys a razor instead.

 _You’re not him anymore_.

Rose is right about that, but she’s also very, very wrong. He _is_ him. Has to be him.

Who the hell is he if he’s not him? What’s the point of this whole shebang if he’s not?

It’s been a while since he doubted of his place in Rose’s life, doubted of his status in her eyes, but the feeling has come back quickly, and ruthlessly, wondering if these past few weeks have been nothing but a lie, if she’s taken pity on him, taken him for what she initially pinned him to be – a cheap consolation prize that bore a vague resemblance with the man he sprouted out of.

With the man she loves.

That feeling alone is unpleasant enough on its own. It’s relatively worse when he’s wondering if she wasn’t right all along.

_I am him_

He forces the words into his brain, forces them to overtake hers, even if they feel as hollow as that place in the right side of his chest.

_I am him I am him I am him I am him_

He’s in the bedroom now – hers? Theirs? Does it even matter?, closet’s doors open, grabbing for the suits he’s hung in there a week or so ago, after he’d picked them up from Pete’s tailor. She must have seen them, having taken residency in there, but she’s not said anything about it, just like he hasn’t told her about the day he had them made. How odd it’d been, to see himself in an outfit that only _days_ before had been as much a part of himself as his ability to interpret the rifts between timelines.

As odd as it still feels, to put on a jumper in the morning and not have to worry about wearing an undershirt.

His skin is too tight no matter the clothes he puts on to cover it up, his flesh too _human_ , his cells decaying with every passing second.

_Am I him, though?_

He throws one of the suits onto the bed, onto that same bed where she’d let him make love to her again and again, where she’d made love to him, too, and whispered the words into his skin, into this fake, rotting skin.

He goes to the bathroom, emptying the bag of items he’s just bought into the sink; shaving cream, beard trimmer, razor, aftershave, even a jar of some expensive hair gel.

When he glances up and meets his own gaze in the mirror, the way he had hours ago, there is no recognition, staring at this crazed-looking man with bloodshot eyes, a dead man in a shrivelling suit of epithelial tissue.

_Am I him?_

The Doctor grabs the trimmer, and gets to work.

…

Rose actually tries following him out.

She doesn’t go further than jumping off the table, unfortunately, doing so a bit too quickly for her body, suddenly remembering the ‘possible mild concussion’ she might be suffering from when her legs nearly give up under her while her brain temporarily blacks out.

That’s how Jonas finds her; half clinging to the table on her way to the ground.

He refuses to let her go for quite some time, after that, forcing her to remain still while he finishes tending to her wounds, going as far as putting her into a machine to check her head. Physically speaking, she’s fine, really, barely singed.

On an emotional level, she’s not doing so well.

The stress of her failed operation aside, the more time she spends here and away from the Doctor, the sicker she feels, her anguish and distress at the fight they had having taken the form of potent nausea – which, realistically, might also be caused by the formerly mentioned mild concussion. It doesn’t help that the moment her superiors realise that she’s fit enough to stay put and not be sent home, they batter her with questions, and insist that she gets a head start on her mission report.

And she does, until Ethan pops in her office and notes how ‘green’ she looks, at which points he forces her into his car and drives her home.

By then, she’s only tried calling the Doctor once, a call he did not pick up. She doesn’t try again after that, and neither does he. She figures that whatever needs to be said in the aftermath of their row should be said face to face.

She knows he’s home the moment she comes in, finding the door unlocked, also feeling a soft flurry of tingles at the back of her neck she’s come to associate with him. She walks in cautiously, her queasy stomach churning in apprehension, needing to see him, yet dreading what’s to come.

“Doctor?” She calls out, hesitant, checking the living room first. She hears quiet foot steps behind her, and turns around.

She sucks in a breath and her insides _dip_ when she spots the man leaning against the jamb in the kitchen’s doorway, hands in his suit’s pockets.

There is no logic to the emotions that surge through her as she takes in the brown suit, the clean-shaven face and the styled hair, unprepared for the visceral shock and grief that hit her like a punch in the gut.

Rose barely has time to let herself think that it is _him_ , this other Doctor, her Prime Doctor, that she’s noticing the differences. She’s seen that suit hanging in her closet, and there are a couple of fresh cuts on the smooth skin of his face, not to mention the shadows under his eyes, caused by too many restless nights.

She realises that it is him, _her_ him, before she’s even done letting out her next shaky exhale, but that tiny instant during which she believes _he_ ’s come back to her from across the Void is real, and already too much.

Her entire body becomes hot, then cold, her limbs turning into quivering cotton as she stumbles toward the bathroom, having lost the battle she’s been fighting all afternoon.

The only good thing about not having put anything inside her stomach today beside coffee and tea is that she doesn’t have much to throw up. Still, the act itself remains unpleasant enough. The fact that she’s made it to the loo at all is a feeble consolation.

As soon as she’s done heaving, she slumps down, resting her damp forehead against her arms, cold sweat breaking through her entire body, feeling herself shaking not so faintly, aware that he can probably see it, too, from wherever he’s standing.

She knows he’s…near.

She changes the angle of her head, resting her uninjured cheek against her arm to peek sideways, her gaze low, soon stopping on a pair of Converse half-concealed by the cusps of his brown trousers. Rose closes her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep breath, a weak attempt at making the world stop spinning.

Still, he doesn’t speak.

She wants to look up at him, look at his face, meet his eyes but _god_ she can’t.

Her throat aches and her closed eyes burn.

“Is this payback?” She eventually whispers.

She almost feels the silence pressing down between her shoulder blade.

“Payback?” He asks, and even this simple repeated word comes out hoarse, his voice deep and somewhat choked; he sounds miserable, too.

“For what I said earlier,” she speaks thickly, her own voice still muffled against her arms. “Isn’t it what this’s about? You, making a point?”

She hears his next intake of breath, slow, loud and shaky. “I suppose I am trying to make some kind of point,” he answers at last, sounding oddly breathless. “Although I’m not entirely sure it’s to you, or…not just to you, in any case. But no, this is not…’payback’.”

Rose pushes herself off the toilet, going as far as pressing on the handle to flush it, before shifting on the floor to lean back against the tub, bringing her knees close to her chest as she lets her gaze move up, slowly.

The outfit is somewhat different from the one he used to wear, back on his TARDIS, the colour just a tad off, the stripes thicker and a bit further apart, his tie brand new. But it’s close enough.

Close enough to hurt.

Rose averts her gaze, unable to look up at his face. “Yeah, well…your point’s been made,” she says quietly, pressing a hand to her forehead, eyes closed. Her nausea’s gone, but the headache isn’t. “You’re the Doctor alright.”

In her chest, her heart keeps on pounding, and she can’t get her breathing to deepen properly, struggling with getting a hold of herself. It’d been a while since she’d experienced this kind of episode.

“Am I, though?” There is no sarcasm in his voice, only uncertainty; somehow it’s worse, to hear just how insecure he is. “You said it yourself. Human body. No more technology. No defences. High risk of mortality.”

Her hand drops from her forehead, even as her heart speeds up a little more and guilt burns at the back of her throat, going back to hugging her knees. She’d not meant to break his spirits when she’d said those things. She’d been angry, and hurt, and scared, too. She’d wanted him to understand he couldn’t afford to jump into things head first the way he used to.

She opens her eyes and fixes her blurry gaze on one of his hands, hanging limply by his side. “’s all just…physical stuff,” she breathes out. “You’re the Doctor in every way that matters.”

“And yet, seeing me looking the way I did when we travelled together was enough of a shock to make you ill.”

“That’s not fair,” she shakes her head, speaking to his knees, now. “I can’t…control the way my body reacts. You took me by surprise, at the end of a rather crappy day. This look…it’s yours, as much as it’s his.”

“This would be more convincing if you could actually look me in the eyes when saying this.”

Rose bites hard on her lip as her face constricts, causing tears to start rolling down her cheeks, not even bothering with wiping them off. She’d been so good, these past few weeks. She’d compartmentalized it all, separated them both in two distinct entities indeed.

Her Time Lord Doctor, and her Human Doctor. For all intent and purposes, her Human Doctor has every right to do this. To shave off his beard, and put on a suit.

And yet it feels inherently _wrong_ , like he’s forcing her to mash up those two entities into one.

She doesn’t miss the irony in this.

“What d’you want from me?” She asks to his tie, her voice thick with tears. “I’ve been honest with you from day one on how I feel about this, about this ‘ _there are two of you’_ thing. Is this…is it really that difficult to understand why it’s hard for me, seeing you dressed like this?”

“No, I understand,” he answers quietly. “But I…” she sees him swallowing hard, her gaze fixed on his throat, now. “It’s hard for me, too. To see you react this way. It makes it…confusing.”

She actually raises her gaze and meets his eyes, finding them red-rimmed, ignoring the wild rhythm of her heart, feeling like she’s dissociating again.

She tilts her head, her face constricting as her insides squeeze in pain, staring straight at him, now. “Did I give you any reason not to trust how I feel about you?”

“No,” he breathes out with a shake of his head.

“Then what is it, uh?”

“I…” He rubs at the back of his neck, now the one averting his eyes, clearly struggling with speech at the moment, which is almost ludicrous, coming from him.

She could give him time to sort his thoughts out, but her own words are begging to be let out. “D’you want me to admit that I’ve thought about what it’d be like, if I was on the TARDIS with him instead of here with you? ‘cause I have.” Her voice is gaining volume, even as his pale skin becomes positively grey-ish.

“I’ve played that whole movie in my head quite a few times, actually,” she continues. “My own sixty years spent with the last of the Time Lords, before I die and leave him on his own again, and that’s if I don’t die long before that from some stupid injury or disease he can’t cure. I thought about whether or not he’d try to drop me off again next time he figured it was too dangerous for me to hang around, or if I’d completely freak out again the next time he regenerated on me. And I thought about you, too, in that scenario.”

He meets her eyes again, with obvious reluctance.

“Would you be tagging along, shadowing us in the TARDIS, forced to watch and not touch?” Her voice has dropped again, almost a whisper, now. “Or would you be trapped here in this world, all alone? Am I shallow, for admitting to myself that this stupid human life’s better for me than a life of adventure out there with him?” Hot tears streak down her face.  “Am I selfish for loving you, and making it easy for myself?”

“Rose…”

But she shakes her head, looking away as she gulps down a rising sob, uselessly wiping at her nose with her sleeve, fighting for breath. A long minute passes during which she tries her best to get her tears under control, at least enough to be able to speak again.

“I know you’re not…happy,” she eventually whispers, unable to look at him. “I know you’re struggling, with being here, living that human life with me. And sometimes I can’t help thinking…” She takes a shaky breath, risking a glance at his face. “…am I making this worse for you?”

“What?” He looks as shocked as he sounds. “No,” he responds at once, shaking his head vehemently, before pinching at the bridge of his nose with a grimace, in an obvious attempt to try and keep his tears in. “Bloody…” He almost chokes out. “No, Rose. _No_. You’re not making it worse.”

“’cause I feel like I’m failing you,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to help you.”

“I don’t know how to help _myself_!” He almost shouts, briefly grabbing at his hair with both his hands, before giving up all pretence and starting to pace, as much as one can pace in a bathroom’s doorway. “Every time I think I’m making progress in adapting to all this and all the changes, I feel like I take three steps back!”

She watches him go back and forth in front of her like the trapped man that he is, her heart sinking and breaking a little more. “You’ve changed before,” she reminds him weakly.

“Not like this,” he shakes his head again. “It was never anything like this. I didn’t just…change my height, or my hair, or the size of my ears. I’ve lost my _senses_. I’ve lost my regenerations, and my TARDIS. I’ve lost the stars.” He’s lost his battle against his tears, too, not trying to conceal them, or stop them, letting them run down his face as he grabs at his hair again, not looking at her when he says: “I’ve got you, and it’s more than I…”

He stops, both his movements and his words, the rest of his sentence dissolving in a choked up sound. He wipes at his face with a shaky hand, before slumping heavily against the doorjamb, sniffling loudly as he brings his gaze back to hers, staring right at her.

“You’re more than I deserve,” he tells her thickly, yet matter-of-factly. “So much more than I deserve, Rose, I’m well aware of that. And most days, it’s enough...more than enough. Having you. But then there are days like today, when it’s not.”

He doesn’t look at her as he says this.

“Because suddenly, I find myself on the side line, forced to sit and wait, and I can’t condone it. This can’t be who I am.” He shakes his head, his wide eyes almost crazed. “Even if I know you’re right, that I’ve got nothing much to offer anymore…what I do have, I don’t want it to serve their interests. I don’t want to be controlled by their rules and their protocols, waiting for their clearance to be allowed to _help_ , or to be authorised to be in the same room as you. I know it’s a big part of your life, now, and I respect that. But I can’t let it become a big part of mine. I just can’t.”

Out of that whole tirade, her distressed mind only latches onto one thing.

_And most days, it’s enough…more than enough. Having you. But then there are days like today, when it’s not._

She understands what he means, and where he’s coming from. It doesn’t make it any less painful, to have the confirmation that she’s not enough for him, could never be enough. He’s got over nine hundred years of memories, after all. Nine hundred years of a life spent traveling the stars.

What is she, really, in the grand span of his existence?

If she asked him, he would be able to tell her within half a second, the exact percentage that her time spent as his companion represents. She doesn’t need to be good at maths to know that a couple of years out of nine centuries makes quite a small number.

A couple of weeks spent playing house with her is even smaller.

Rose absolutely despises the pattern of her thoughts and how it claws at her heart, because he _loves_ her and she knows it, down to the marrow of her bones.

But he’s unhappy, and she’s not enough.

Her instincts urge her to seek comfort in his arms, aware that he could use a hug just as much as she does. But the fact that staring at his damn Converse is enough to cause fresh tears to pour down her cheeks makes _hugging_ him a bit of an impossibility.

She pushes herself up anyway, soon standing on shaky legs, holding on to the sink with one hand for support.

“I…” she tries, but her heart is thumping in her ears, her throat closing up again. “I know we’ve got to work this out, but I…” The words get stuck again, closing her eyes as she sucks in more air, passed the painful lump in her throat. “I need a breather.”

There is a heavy pause. “A…breather,” he repeats.

She swallows hard, nodding her head, eyes still closed shut. “Just…space,” she breathes out. “Some time alone so I can…I dunno. Calm down a bit.”

She actually means to walk out of the bathroom, maybe even take a walk outside, if her body allows it, but he speaks before she can make her intentions clear.

“I’ll go,” he tells her, quietly.

What hurts almost more than anything else today is the understanding in his voice, an understanding that sounds a lot like resignation.

She doesn’t say _you don’t have to_ ; she’s just told him he does.

“Where will you go?” She whispers instead, her throat and heart aching as she looks back at him.

Staring at him in his brown suit, with his red-rimmed eyes and that look on his face…she almost expects him to tell her they only have two minutes left.

He shrugs faintly. “I’ll stay on this planet,” he says, a weak, unsuccessful attempt at being humorous.

He makes to leave the room, but she calls out his name at once, sounding almost desperate. She’s beyond caring at this point, more tears seeping down her cheeks as soon as their eyes meet.

“Come back, yeah?” Her soft plea rings with fear.

There is a pause, and then he’s walking to her, a hand already raised to her face to cup her wet, uninjured cheek, before he presses his lips to her clammy forehead. His hold on her is tight as he nods, once, his breathing loud and laboured against her skin.

She wants to wrap her arms around him, and keep him close, force him to stay here with her, ignore the fact that she’s the one who’s making him go. But her traitorous body remains locked, her heart thumping in anguish, unable to relax against him.

When he leaves her, moments later, all that’s missing from this scene is the whooshing sound of a vanishing TARDIS, or maybe the laments of a howling wind.

Everything else, from her muffled sobs to the throbbing in her chest, is pretty much the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a message/comment after the beep.
> 
> *BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP*


	8. VIII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If the Doctor had turned right after leaving the building, he would have followed a different path. As it so happens, he shares some of Donna’s instincts, now, so that when he’s given a choice in direction, he tends to turn _left_ , even if he’s not entirely sure why.
> 
> On that fateful late afternoon, his choice to go left is not a conscious one. At this point, none of his actions are particularly conscious, not even the repeated wiping of his nose on the sleeve of his suit jacket."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny how guilt can make you write and edit over 6,000 words within 4 days, in between driving 700km through France, taking ferries back to England, and potentially prepping some lessons. A giant, heartfelt thank you to Laura for putting up with me, and for pointing out some of my most glaring typos, since English grammar has decided to abandon me; I am suffering from a bit of ‘bilingual brain syndrome’ at the moment, I do apologise if you spot more.
> 
> There is a blood trigger warning for this chapter; it’s nothing too graphic, but it is mentioned repeatedly. Both the Doctor and Rose are fine, by the way. I wouldn’t do that to you, guys.

**VIII.**

Everyone’s life is governed by choices.

For each choice that is made, there are an infinite number of parallel universes being created, in which other paths were followed.

In hindsight, the Doctor will come to think of this day as one of these immutable moments in his long and strange existence; another fixed point in his Timeline, as important and life-altering as sneaking into the TARDIS and stealing her had been. As important as his first time visiting planet Earth. Or the day he made a choice, and Gallifrey fell.

The day he found Rose in a shop’s basement and took her hand. Said hand getting chopped off some months later. Deciding to pour his regenerative into it. Donna triggering his metacrisis by touching the glass jar.

Whispering three words in Rose’s ear on a Norwegian beach.

If the Doctor had turned right after leaving the building, he would have followed a different path. As it so happens, he shares some of Donna’s instincts, now, so that when he’s given a choice in direction, he tends to turn _left_ , even if he’s not entirely sure why.

On that fateful late afternoon, his choice to go left is not a conscious one.

At this point, none of his actions are particularly conscious, not even the repeated wiping of his nose on the sleeve of his suit jacket. This day’s events have left him rather numb. The only thing he’s _consciously_ trying to do is keep the image of Rose’s tearstain face away, feeling like a thick nail is being hammered into his heart every time he remembers her last words to him, and the fear in her voice.

_Come back, yeah?_

His Rose, left behind so many times by various incarnations of him that she’d needed to know he wouldn’t add this one to the list.

It pains him, to be walking further away from her, when what he wants to do is wrap her in his arms and keep her against him until she never doubts him again.

That’s highly unrealistic, though. He’s a rather flawed being by default, was long before he became this hybrid version of himself, and nothing he could do or say could guarantee a future in which Rose Tyler never doubts him again.

All he can do is listen to her and to what she needs, even if it means walking away from her, and _staying_ away.

And so he walks, in what some would call “circle”, but the reality of it is more of a skewed rectangle as he keeps turning left at random intersections, creating a shifting, convex trapezoid that brings him closer back to her while taking him further away.

The collision happens at one of those intersections.

Luckily, he’s made his turn almost a full minute ago when it does, which means that he hears the crash more than he sees it.

He turns towards the sounds, as do every other passers-by; late afternoon is on its way to early evening at this point, but this is _London_. The street isn’t as crowded as it can be in this city, this particular residential area not offering much in terms of shops or pubs. Still, he’s far from being the only onlooker witnessing the last stretch of the car’s tumultuous skid.

The Doctor is, however, the only one who processes the gravity of the situation before the car even comes to a stop. This is the first time since the Crucible that he finds himself in a situation that puts his brain on high alert, having almost forgotten what it felt like. Running is another thing he’s not done in a while.

It all comes back fairly quickly.

While most people rush to the car that has impaled itself into the side of a building, smoke already oozing from its wrecked engine, the Doctor sprints across the street, where the cyclist has landed.

The girl is on the ground, a few feet away from her crooked bicycle. His glasses are on his nose and his screwdriver is out before he’s joined her on the pavement, his own skid ruining the knees of his trousers. The quick scan of her body tells him most of what he needs to know; the helmet she’s wearing undoubtedly saved her from a deadly head trauma, but she’s got a few broken bones. What needs urgent care is the wound on her arm below her elbow, from which a non-negligible amount of blood is spewing, something sharp having cut through several layer of tissues, down to thicker blood vessels.

He’s already taken off his jacket, bunching it up to apply pressure on the gash, trying to slow the blood flow. The girl lets out a cry when he does, informing him that she’s not as unconscious as he thought she was.

Blimey she’s young. Can’t be older than fifteen.

“Sorry about that,” he tells her, his eyes sweeping the street. Across from them, an older looking lady is being helped out of the fuming car, appearing to be unharmed enough. “What’s your name?” He asks, refocusing on the girl.

“Hannah Jenkins,” she whimpers.

“Hello Hannah Jenkins, I’m the Doctor,” he tells her, peeking at the wound under his jacket, blood still gushing. “Here’s what’s going on. I didn’t see what happened, but at some point in your fall, your arm got lacerated, and I’m afraid your brachial artery might be damaged. Now the tricky thing about arteries is that they are much thicker and bigger than smaller blood vessels like veins, because their job is to pump a lot of blood around your body, very quickly, so unfortunately, when they start bleeding, they bleed a lot.”

“’m gonna die?” She cries in panic.

“Not while I’m here,” he assures her, one hand still applying a firm pressure to the wound while his other one has gone up to his tie, pulling on it to loosen it. “How old are you, Hannah?”

“F-fourteen,” she answers.

“Definitely not dying at fourteen,” he tells her; he senses a couple people coming their way, now. “Did someone call for an ambulance?” He asks without looking around, now using his knee to keep the pressure going while he quickly undo the knot in his tie. There’s an affirmative response, behind him. “I need some help. Someone gives me an elastic band, or an hair tie. Also, find me something long, hard, and thin, _quickly_.”

“What’s going on?” Hannah cries. She’s getting paler and paler.

“Putting pressure on is not always enough to stop the blood flow,” he explains. “So I’m going to have to apply a tourniquet to your arm, do you know what that is?”

“’s like…something that squeezes real tight?”

“Well done, you,” he praises her with a smile he doesn’t feel like giving but she’s barely more than a child. Someone taps his shoulder and he extends a hand without looking back, closing his fingers around the hair tie, getting to work, passing the tie in it, before starting to wrap it around Hannah’s upper arm. “I’m using my tie here to hopefully completely stop the blood flow going through your arm. I’m going to do that by wrapping it really, really tight.”

“I’ve got this, will it do?”

The Doctor turns, someone holding out what appears to be a windshield wiper, freshly torn off from a nearby car. “Ingenuous,” he praises again, surveying the man’s large built and thick arms. “Can you snap it in half for me? Give me the thickest bit.”

The man obeys at once. On the other side of Hannah, a woman has sat down and started to talk to her reassuringly, although she stops the moment he refocused on his task, now holding the thick piece of plastic, knotting it to the tie. “Now Hannah, this will be unpleasant. See I’m using this bit here as a windlass, to increase the mechanical force I’m applying to the tourniquet. That’s all fancy talk for my tie squeezing your arm real tight.” He does as he says, causing her to whimper in pain, but she doesn’t cry out or ask him to stop.

Makeshift tourniquets are tricky, usually discouraged, as they can cause more damage than anything else, if applied poorly. Thankfully for Hannah, the Doctor doesn’t do these things _poorly_ , soon using the hair tie to secure the windlass, just as sirens can be heard further down the street. Already, the blood flow has been reduced to a trickle, and when he checks for a pulse at her wrist, he feels nothing – which is what he was hoping for.

The next few minutes are chaotic, all of his senses sharpened and enhanced by the excess of adrenaline in his own rushing blood. Before long, paramedics are taking over, and Hannah is shoved at a back of their vehicle.

When one of the medics comes to him with a look of concern, asking him where he’s hurt, the Doctor takes a look at himself, only now taking notice of the blood that has soaked through his sleeves and the front of his shirt, his hands covered in it as well. When he explains that he’s not injured at all, but that he’s the one who applied the tourniquet, the paramedic actually claps his shoulder.

“That was some quick thinking you did, there. You saved her life.” And he’s off.

He supposes he must look a right mess, in the aftermath of this unexpected rescue mission, both the woman and the man who’d been at his side during the big of it asking him if he’s alright, too, if he needs any help, or if he wants them to call someone for him.

He’s _fine_ , he tells them both. _Molto bene!_ He even crows a bit, his voice too high, and loud, genuinely baffled, exhilarated and a tad nauseous, too. He’s all kind of shaky, now, and…bloody _bloody_. And it’s not that he’s never dealt with blood before, but it wasn’t a frequent thing in his travels, and he’s never had to deal with so much of it in this particular body, with these particular senses.

He really should clean up and change.

He’s already started walking back to their flat when he gets his phone out to call Rose, something sensible piercing through his haze to remind him that he can’t just show up like this, barely an hour after she’s expressed the need to be alone for a while.

His state of shock is such that he doesn’t even notice the fact that she picks up his call before the line even rings once.

“I…” he tries. His tongue feels oddly heavy in his mouth. “I know I’ve just left but I…need a change of clothes. Is that alright if I stop by?”

There’s a pause. If he’d been a bit more _with it_ , he might have noted the way she inhales sharply.

“Yeah,” she eventually breathes out. “It’s…sure, yeah, that’s fine.”

“I’m on my way,” he says, before hanging up.

He keeps himself from running back to her.

…

Rose’s ‘breather’ is not of the most successful.

She does manage to calm down, with the help of some cold water repeatedly splashed on her face, quickly finding that too-familiar ‘off switch’ in herself that allows her to stop the flow of tears that are usually Doctor-induced.

She brushes her teeth, combs her hair, changes into her sleeping attire, and even makes herself eat a fruit and some cereal, aware that the lack of food in her system did not help with her recent meltdown. The strong pain killers she takes help, too, although they don’t make her as sleepy as she hoped they would.

About forty minutes after the Doctor left, she feels a lot more like herself, except that he’s not here anymore, and she’s not exactly alright about that. She can’t sleep. She can’t read, can’t watch the telly, can’t do much of anything beside sit in one place, only to stand back up a couple minutes later and pace for a while, before sitting down somewhere else. She nearly calls him a few times, nibbling on her nail as she does so, never brave enough to press the call button.

What would it say about her, if she told him she needed space, only to call him less than an hour later to admit that actually, what she really needs is him and his arms around her and the reassurance that whatever the hell just happened, they can work through it together.

As it turns out, she will never have to find out, as he ends up being the one calling her – although she does pick up the call embarrassingly quickly.

“I…” he starts at once, and he sounds a bit…off. To be fair, they’ve both had a crappy day. She’s just relieved to hear his voice. “I know I’ve just left but I…need a change of clothes. Is that alright if I stop by?”

Her heart sinks.

A change of clothes?

Does that mean he’s planning on staying away long enough to need more clothes? Sure, she more or less kicked him out, but she never thought their time apart would last more than a few hours. Where would he even stay?

Obviously, he’s figured that out already, which, truly, shouldn’t come as a surprise. Crappy day or not, the Doctor is the Doctor.

He knows how to get by.

Rose swallows passed the returning lump in her throat, fighting her growing distress at the realisation that, while she’s ready to see him again, he’s not as ready to see her…nothing beyond a quick walkthrough to get some clothes.

“Yeah…” she eventually breathes out. “It’s…sure, yeah, that’s fine.”

“I’m on my way,” he says, and hangs up.

She spends the next few minutes working on _not_ switching those tears back on again. The fact that she’s this weepy and emotional tells her more than she needs to know about her own state of mind, obviously not-that-much calmer at all, and possibly more hormonal than usual – which does happen on a monthly basis. She waits on the couch, restless and dejected, chewing the nail of her thumb raw, repeatedly telling herself that she must keep it together when he arrives.

Unfortunately, when he does arrive a few minutes later, ‘keeping it together’ is not an option.

She gapes at him, feeling her entire body go numb as she scrambles back to her feet.

“Oh my god,” she breathes out in anguish, staring at his blood-stained shirt, and hands, the liquid barely even dry, only just starting to darken, feeling nauseous all over again as she walks to him in a daze.

“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s not mine,” he adds as she stops in front of him, her hands reaching out as if to touch him, but she doesn’t, forcing herself to stop gawking at the blood to look up at his face.

His pupils are enlarged, his body emanating that static energy she knows so well, as if he’s about to crawl out of his skin with a bounce in his steps, and yet, his gaze is oddly blurred, obviously in some state of shock.

“Whose is it, then?” She has to ask.

“Hannah’s,” he answers, as if that’s supposed to make sense to her. Despite his not-all-that-togetherness, he must notice her confusion, because he adds: “There was…an accident, a few blocks down. Hannah, she got hurt, quite badly, so I…helped.”

“Is she…” Rose questions, and his brows shoot up, despite his gaze remaining glassy.

“Oh, she’s alive!” He says in a rush, his pitch rising. “Or, at least she was when medics took over.”

Rose has absolutely no idea what she’s supposed to say, as shell-shocked by his bloody appearance as he seems to be by what caused him to become bloodied.

“I’m just…” He tries, his energy level already back down several notches, clearing his throat. “I really should change. I’ll be quick.”

Rose experiences another one of those ‘ _oh’_ moments, his phone call suddenly making perfect sense. He did not mean ‘a change of clothes’ because he planned on spending the night away from her.

He _literally_ needs a change of clothes.

There’s no way she’s forcing him back out there tonight, though, not unless he expresses the desire to be away from her. Right now, judging by the glazed look on his face and his waxy complexion, what he needs is some time to process what’s just happened.

That, and a shower.

Rose gently grabs at his wrist, aware that his sleeves are imbued with crimson. “C’mon,” she says softly.

She pulls, and he follows, leading him back to the bathroom. She’s so focused on him that she doesn’t even think about what they’d told each other in that very room only an hour ago.

She lets him go long enough to turn on the water in the shower, giving it time to warm up; when she turns back to him, he’s raised his hands to the collar of his shirt, now attempting to undo the buttons.

His fingers are not cooperating.

“Well, that’s new,” he muses distractedly, finally managing to undo the top button with bloody, tremoring fingers.

“’s the adrenaline,” she tells him softly, her own hands coming up and gently pushing his back down. “Your body’s in shock.”

As she begins unbuttoning his shirt, it dawns on her that _of course_ he knows it’s the adrenaline, half expecting him to delve into a long ramble about the effects of adrenaline on weak human tissues. He remains silent instead, letting her slowly work her way down his shirt. The other thing that soon dawns on her is that she’s never done this before – unbuttoned his dress shirt, revealing the undershirt beneath, although that’s something she often thought about doing during their TARDIS days.

When she glances up at his face and meets his gaze, which is somewhat less distant and a lot more focused than it was a minute ago, she knows he’s aware of it, too.

“Where’s the rest of your clothes?” She asks quietly, only now noticing the lacking pieces in his outfit.

He blinks, before frowning deeply. “I used my tie to make a tourniquet. The jacket’s….uhm. Probably in a bloody heap, somewhere.”

Rose nods, working with him to take off his shirt. He pulls off the undershirt next, while she undresses herself quickly and quietly, planning on joining him, since he’s still not said anything or shown any sign that he would rather be alone. He carries on with letting her lead, helping him with the removal of his belt and shoes, as his hands remain ineffective. Less than two minutes later, they’re stepping in the shower.

“Your arm…” he says, somewhat subdued, his eyes fixed on a point below her left shoulder. “You really shouldn’t get it wet.”

It takes her a moment, but she understands he’s talking about her bandaged burn.

In answer, she steps closer to him with a small shake of her head, letting the water fall upon her body, making it clear she doesn’t care. She grabs the liquid soap instead and pours some in her palm, before taking one of his hands and starting to wash his skin.

The blood, which barely had time to dry, comes off easily enough, briefly forming pink, foamy suds at their feet, before being drained out; she spends some time cleaning off each of his nails, making sure nothing remains under them. By the time she moves on to his second hand, most of the blood has already been washed away from the water alone, but she gives it the same care, the Doctor letting her work in complete silence and compliance.

Long after they’re clean, Rose keeps one of his hands in hers, using her thumbs to press into the soft flesh of his palm, and the underside of his fingers, feeling through muscles and tendons to the bones beneath. She runs her fingertips over his, the skin there noticeably rougher than it was only three weeks ago. She briefly thinks back to that time she’d pointed out his lack of calluses, as if his brand new skin had been an affront to her.

But he’s already more calloused, physically as close as he could ever be to the Doctor he was before his metacrisis, her fingers now up to his face, tracing the smooth lines of his jaws. The things he’s lacking, the things he’s lost, they truly don’t matter. What does she know, of _genomes_ or _nucleic acid sequences_ , all words she heard yesterday in that office when he was told the results of his tests.

He’s her Doctor; human or Time Lord, it doesn’t matter, and she hates that she made him feel like it does.

Her fingers have followed a familiar path to his hair, curling into it, and when she pulls, he opposes no resistance, leaning down into her touch, his freed hands coming to rest gently on her upper arms, deviating the path of the water trickling down her skin. She’s replaced her fingers on his jaw with her lips, pressing light kisses upon that one unknown territory, which was already stubbled back when she was first allowed to do this.

With each new kiss, his hold on her tightens, pinning her increasingly more firmly to him, until his arms move to circle her back, initiating an embrace she returns at once, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and _squeezing_. She burrows her face into the crook of his neck, feeling the equally-tight hold of his arms around her, hearing and feeling his shallow breathing, so close to her ear that even the strong sound of the water can’t drown it out.

“’m sorry,” she speaks against his skin, her voice thick, almost sorrowful. “I’m so sorry…for leaving you behind. And for those things I said.”

He’s moving, then, one arm remaining around her, while his other hand disappears into her wet hair. He uses this hold on her to gently pull her face away from his neck; it’s her turn to follow his lead, moving just enough for their eyes to meet, causing a familiar, aching tug inside of her, her throat painfully constricted, unable to tell if she’s crying, although she highly suspects that she is.

His gaze is properly focused, now, his pupils still fully dilated, but she knows herself to be the reason for it, this time. He pulls her slowly forward as he leans down, briefly resting his forehead against hers, before tracing the bridge of her nose with the tip of his.

He kisses her with the same tenderness, his lips brushing hers, then brushing hers again, slowly increasing the pressure as his hold on her hair tightens, his intensity flowing through his touch like an undercurrent. She sinks into him the way she always does, although with a hint of melancholy, tonight, opening up to the feel of his tongue slowly requesting entrance, joining in at the same pace. It isn’t long before it picks up speed, fingers clenching into hair, muscles tensing, their bodies seeking one another, their embrace even tighter than it was a mere minute ago.

Pinned as she is against him, none of them can ignore the way he’s reacted to her, for quite some time, now. She presses herself into the heat of him with a familiar roll of her hips, causing him to moan into her mouth, his entire body shaken with equally familiar shudders. When he resumes kissing her, he does it with a hunger that leaves her weak in the knees.

She manages to shut off the spray and drag him out of the shower, pointlessly attempting some drying off with the closest towel at hand, trying to absorb some of the water off their skins before they move on to the next room, but he’s not remotely helpful. While she sweeps the cotton across his back, he presses opened-mouth kisses to her neck, one hand still in her hair while the other slips between her legs, causing her to drop the towel, her moan muffled against his shoulder.

She pushes, causing him to stumble backwards into the bedroom, until his legs hit the mattress and he lets himself fall back, soon sitting at the edge of it with her swiftly coming to straddle him. There is no more distance between their bodies, their limbs locked so tightly around one another, yet they instinctively seek out that last connection that will join them as one. A few shifts of her body and hips, helped by his holds on her, and he’s inside of her.

They move with ease, two lovers well-acquainted with each other’s body, although there is a different energy to their love making, this time, a matching ache at the back of their eyes, which are unwilling to part, much like the rest of them. It’s the energy that comes in the aftermath of having rubbed the other raw, of having pressed down upon bruises that spread so deep under the skin, of having parted ways, if only just briefly.

It’s the meeting of two relieved souls, while their bodies seek a much needed release from that suffocating tension, a release that comes closer and closer, faster and faster, swelling, swelling, swelling…

And again, Rose wouldn’t be able to tell if what she feels seeping down the side of her face are tears, or water, or sweat – not that it matters. It trickles down her jaw, joins up with droplets already present on her skin; this heavier amalgam, governed by the immutable force of gravity, runs down faster to pool in the crook of her neck. That’s when he breaks eye contact, nestling his face there where wetness has gathered, drinking her in, drinking it all in, her fingers so tight in his hair, as if willing their skins to just give in and fuse. It isn’t long before his whole body shakes, his muffled groan reverberating through her while her hoarse cry rings freely into the air.

Gravity is at it again, then, pulling them down upon the bed, and none of them has the strength to fight it.

All they manage to do is to move and shift until most of their bodies rest upon the mattress, although he lets her wiggle further up, so that when they resume the entanglement of their limbs, both of them on their sides, his face is snuggly pressed between her heaving breasts, her arms keeping him close, with her nose buried in his hair.

They stay like this a while, allowing the cocktail of chemicals in their blood to carry on untying the knots in their muscles – and eventually their tongues.

When the Doctor does move, it’s not by much, pulling away slightly from her, only to stare at her chest, bringing a hand to her breast, barely cupping it, his fingertips resting lightly on her skin.

When at least another minute goes by and he simply carries on staring, she _has_ to ask.

“What?”

He seems to leave his own head, his brow rising in mild surprise as he lifts his head, enough to meet her eyes. “Mm?”

“You’re staring.” She states. “At my breasts.”

“I was just…thinking.”

“Yeah?” She half-chuckles, because _really_. “And what about, exactly? ‘cause that look on your face was way too serious, knowing what you’re looking at.”

He shrugs, or what feels like a shrug, entangled as they are. “I was thinking about how absolutely bizarre this day has been. Positively bonkers. But this,” he actually digs his fingers a bit more into her flesh. “This is such a comforting constant. It’s always there. Familiar. And _squishy_ ,” he adds, briefly giving her breast a squeeze to prove his point.

Rose’s laughter is genuine, this time, the sound short, rumbly and tired, but genuine. She wiggles again in his arms, slithering back down so that they are at that same level, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, a hand cupping his cheek. “You’re such a breasts man,” she whispers with a small smile.

When she pulls away, she’s surprised by how solemn he looks. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

It’s her turn to half-shrug. “’t’s fine. I’m glad one of us is enjoying them.”

“Not…that,” he shakes his head. “I’m sorry for what happened, today. I realise I’ve hurt you, too. And I’m sorry.”

The mood shifts at once, although it remains lighter than it ever was at any point, today, both ready to talk about it, without that oppressing feeling that had been choking them.

Rose moves her fingers from his cheek and back into his hair in a slow caress. “’m mostly to blame for what’s happened, though. When you think about it, all you did was…react, to stuff I did, or said.”

“Mm…” he muses, with a small pout of his lips, unconvinced. “Perhaps. But there are less… _extreme_ ways to react in those situations. I suppose your mother had a point. I can be a tad overdramatic.”

Rose doesn’t reply at once, her fingers still moving slowly in his hair, while his remain on her breast, repeatedly brushing the underside of it with his thumb, almost distractedly.

“I definitely got that overprotective streak of hers from the gene pool, didn’t I?” She asks softly.

He carefully thinks about his answer. “You’re fierce and protective of the things you care about,” he eventually says.

“All synonyms for ‘overbearing and controlling’,” she states, thickly. “I’m smothering you.”

His hand actually moves, freeing her breast and coming up to mirror hers, his fingers sinking into her hair. “You mean well. I know that.”

“Doesn’t make it alright, though,” she says, a lump already back in her throat. “It’s all because I care, yeah. But that’s also how I cope with not knowing how to help you. ‘cause as much as I tell myself or you that I understand what you’re going through…I don’t. And how could I, really. You’re over nine-hundred-years old. I’m not even twenty-five.”

“Well, you’ve always been mature for your age,” he attempts some humour, but she’s not ready for that, not done with her self-flagellating.

“Look at what’s just happened,” she carries on as if he’d never spoken. “I let you out of my sight for half an hour, allow you to go and do something on your own without me shadowing your every move, and you save someone’s life.”

“That was really just…coincidental.”

“Was it, though?” She pulls away a bit more to better look at him, her hand back on his face, her fingers tight on his jaw. “This…this is what you do. What you’ve always done, from the moment we met. You help people. You save them, just like you saved me. That’s why I have to stop with…keeping you locked in, or locked out. I’ve got to let you be the Doctor.”

He swallows hard. “I’m not sure what it even means anymore.” He admits, inhaling, then exhaling a bit shakily. “Today, I saved a life. But that’s not all that I do. Sometimes, I do the opposite. And, after all, that’s what I – _he_ , asked you to do, isn’t it? To keep an eye on me. ‘Born in battle, full of blood, and anger and revenge’, remember?”

“I don’t believe that,” she whispers with a shake of her head, her fingertips tracing his lips. “Even if you’ve got it in you, yeah, the way he does. What I believe is that you do whatever’s necessary, whatever needs to be done, in order to save lives, even if sometimes, it only leaves you with the kind of choices no one else wants to make. But that’s not something that happens just to humans, or to Time Lords. That’s just what happens to anyone trying to do good in this universe.”

He watches her for a long, quiet moment. “When did you become so wise?” He eventually asks against her fingertips.

“Dunno…” She whispers with a faint shrug and a sad smile. “Probably around the same time I grew up.”

His face darkens, and he swallows hard. “What I said to you back at Torchwood, or more or less implied, rather cowardly at that, it was unfair of me. It’s unrealistic, to expect you not to have changed during our years apart, or not to have been influenced by your circumstances. It’s also extremely hypocritical of me, considering I routinely change my entire genetic makeup. Not to mention scolding you for using weapons, when I never shy away from using my very own whenever I need to. The truth is, you’ve grown into quite the remarkable person, one that I respect, and truly admire.” His hand leaves her hair, his fingers coming to grab hers near his face, giving them a squeeze. “You remain, Rose Tyler, undeniably fantastic,” he concludes, before kissing her knuckles, keeping her hand pressed to his lips.

His words, although honest and everything she could have hoped for not so long ago, causes her throat to clench, her eyes prickling once more. He notices, of course, close as they are, his brow furrowing as he brings his face closer to hers, letting go of her hand to cup her face again, not needing to ask anything, his thumb caressing her cheekbone.

“I just…” she tries, but the words get stuck in her throat. “I just wish I was…enough. For you.”

His thumb stops moving upon her flushed skin, swallowing hard again. “I’m fairly certain I said ‘having you’ was _sometimes_ not enough.”

“Semantics, really,” she replies, almost sardonically, in quite a good imitation of him.

“Well, semantics obviously _are_ important, on occasions. Because at the risk of sounding redundant, and yes, maybe even a tad cheesy, you really are more than I deserve, and more than I could ever have hoped for,” he tells her, almost sternly. “You make me feel more alive than anything I’ve experienced in all my centuries of traveling and adventuring, and you most certainly make me feel more loved than I could have imagined. And I don’t just mean now either, in this body, and this universe. All these things I feel, they’re things I’ve felt from the day I found you in London. The ‘not enough’ issue is all about me, not you. It’s about me not coping with finding myself diminished, almost demoted, and not having a clue what to do with myself.”

It takes her a minute to be able to trust herself to speak again, after his long tirade, but she manages it, eventually.

“You could always just…be a Doctor,” she reminds him softly.

He squints at her. “Let me reiterate the ‘diminished’ statement I just made. I’m quite limited in my choices, and feel rather useless, generally speaking.”

She’s brought her hand back to his hair, unable not to. “That girl you saved…Hannah, you said her name was? I don’t think she found you useless. Her family won’t either, or anyone else who loves her.”

Silence settles between them.

“Fair enough,” he eventually breathes out, and she pulls herself closer to him, until her nose is pressed against his.

“I’m gonna be better at this,” she whispers against his lips. “At letting you…be you. Even if…”

She can’t finish her sentence.

“Even if…what?” He probs gently, pulling away slightly, his fingers now tracing her spine.

“It terrifies me,” she admits staring at his lips, unable to look in his eyes as the words fight their way passed the lump in her throat. “Just…knowing you’re as vulnerable as me, now. And it’s not that I don’t have faith in you, or what you can do, ‘cause I do, I really do, but…” A tear seeps out as her face constricts, pooling at the corner of her eye. “I’ve watched you die twice…” she whispers, and there’s more she wants to say, but her throat is clenched shut, feeling more tears spilling out.

He wipes them off with his thumb, bringing their faces close again, foreheads nearly touching. “I’ve got at least fifty years left to live, all of which I intend on spending with you,” he reminds her, quietly. “I can’t promise you I’ll never do anything stupid, we both know that’s asking a bit too much of me, and I definitely can’t promise that I won’t put myself in harm’s way, which is something you can’t promise me either. But I hope you’ll trust me when I say that my will to survive whatever comes my way has never been stronger, weak human body be damned. I am not leaving you.”

Unable to speak, Rose lets her body do it for her, seeking him even as he seeks her, letting him roll her over as he settles between her legs, both her hands clenching at his hair to keep him close, while his arms slip between mattress and shivering skin, aching for the same closeness. She’s never felt this vulnerable yet safe, so safe with the weight of him upon her and the warmth of his skin matching the warmth of hers.

“I love you…” She whispers against his lips as more burning trails trace their way down her temples, disappearing in her hair.

He tells her, too, not once speaking the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like this is nearing its end, it's because it is nearing its end. One more chapter to go. Hopefully, this made up for the last chapter a bit ;-) As always, any feedback is greatly appreciated ♥


	9. IX.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He observes himself in the mirror, shuffling his hair almost distractedly, yet with some immutable panache. This particular _face_ has always made him more vain than he ever was as the man she first met, but what she senses from this self-scrutiny is not vanity.
> 
> He’s…appraising himself.
> 
> Judging by the small crease between his eyes, he’s still not entirely convinced."

**IX.**

He dresses more slowly than she’s ever seen him dress. If he’s aware of her, watching him perform this seemingly mundane task, he doesn’t let it show.

And so Rose watches from the bed, as the Doctor carefully adds layer upon layer, his gaze fixed on his reflection in the closet’s mirror.

At first, she thinks he’s going for another suit, judging by the undershirt he puts on; he doesn’t. He goes for a pair of trousers instead. Not a suit, but a definite step-up from the jeans. He does put on a light-coloured dress shirt, next, taking his time in buttoning each of the buttons, including his cuffs. When he carefully adjusts his collar, she knows he’s not going to add a tie, nor a jacket.

He observes himself in the mirror, shuffling his hair almost distractedly, yet with some immutable panache. This particular _face_ has always made him more vain than he ever was as the man she first met, but what she senses from this self-scrutiny is not vanity.

He’s…appraising himself.

Judging by the small crease between his eyes, he’s still not entirely convinced.

“I like it,” she speaks quietly.

He doesn’t flinch, although he stops playing with his hair, shifting slightly to meet her gaze in the mirror. “Yeah?” He asks, his tone just as quiet.

Rose uncurls slightly under the covers, raising her head from the pillow where it’d been burrowed to prop her cheek upon her palm. “Yeah,” she confirms softly. “It…suits you,” she adds, with the smallest of smirk at her lame pun.

He doesn’t smile back, but there is a familiar twinkle in his eyes that tells her he appreciates her efforts, before his gaze shifts back to his reflection, now examining his already stubbled skin, one hand up to his jaw.

Alright, maybe he’s still a little bit vain.

That realisation warms her up more than anything else; until now, she can’t remember seeing him positively acknowledging his physical appearance since his metacrisis.

“What would you say if I admitted to missing the scruff?” He speaks then, still examining his growing facial hair. “Not the unruly mess it was becoming when I shaved it. More like, the few days old prickly shadow.”

“I’d say I miss it too,” she admits without hesitation, before pushing herself up to a seated position, wrapping an arm around her knees. “’m a bit biased, though. I tend to love your face no matter how much of it is covered with hair.”

He lets his hand drop, meeting her eyes in the mirror again, his lips curling in a genuine, affectionate smile, and she rewards this sweet look of his by letting her tongue peek between her teeth.

Standing in front of the mirror, the Doctor briefly entertains the thought of swiftly undressing again and joining her back into bed. She simply looks scrumptious, her bare skin barely concealed by the sheet, her beautifully flushed face framed by messy, dishevelled hair that hasn’t been properly dry in over thirty-six hours.

It’s the first time he manages to get fully dressed since she helped him undress the other night, though, and he gets the feeling that finding that kind of motivation again might be impossible if he lets himself be tempted by the gorgeous human now biting on her lower lip.

They hadn’t been this… _needy_ since Norway, and while his very soul rejoices and purrs in having spent an entire day doing absolutely nothing beside talking, shagging, sleeping and occasionally eating (in various orders and in different rooms), there’s a reason why he dragged himself out of her sleeping embrace and back into the shower.

He compromises with himself, keeping the clothes on, but walking back to the bed, soon cupping her face in both his hands to pull her up into a soft, lingering kiss, while she wraps her own fingers around his forearms. She opposes no resistance…soft, warm, and compliant, all the while not attempting to pull him back down, despite the two of them knowing how easy it would be; he’s little more than a willing slave to her touch, regularly swayed by the smallest of things, such as her breath upon his skin.

She knows how important it is for him to go, though.

And so Rose lets him go, releasing his arms. He doesn’t completely pull away from her, pressing the lightest of kiss at the edge of her injured cheek; the swelling is long gone, now, but the bruise has darkened significantly in the past twenty-four hours.

“I’ll see you in a couple hours,” he speaks quietly against her skin, and she nods in his hands.

“Just…text me if you need more time, yeah?” She asks, and it’s his turn to nod, finally letting go of her face.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s on his way, having opted for a taxi this time, giving the driver the address Pete texted him earlier this morning. He isn’t sure how legal it is, to use a rich man’s connections to find a patient, but Pete did not ask any question, nor did he seem uncomfortable about it.

The truth is that, in between love making sessions, soul sharing conversations, and conversations that weren’t that evolved at all, the Doctor has had plenty of time to think, while Rose slept a lot, and he slept a lot less.

Something happened to him, that evening on the street, something that isn’t unusual in itself, given his track record, but it definitely feels…important, in this particular life. He almost feels the pieces coming together, just about able to see the picture this puzzle will make, once completed. All he knows is that he should trust his instincts, the way Rose reminded him to do.

Today, his instincts lead him to the hospital.

He doesn’t stop by the reception area, Pete having gone as far as telling him which room to go to. Remembering his manners, he knocks before entering.

“Hello?” He announces himself, tentatively.

The moment Hannah spots him, her face splits into a huge grin. “Oh, my god!” she exclaims at once, trying to sit up in her bed, which looks rather difficult, given the massive cast on one of her legs, her bandaged arm in a sleeve. “You’re really real!”

He walks further into the room, ruffling the hair at the back of his head. “I’m afraid I am, yes.”

“I wasn’t too sure, I was pretty out of it the other day, can’t even remember what happened exactly, I’ve been told it’s because I hit my head kinda hard even with my helmet, and that some people forget things up to twelve hours before a head trauma, isn’t it wild, I kept telling my mum a man in a suit took care of me before the ambulance came but she didn’t seem too convinced, especially since they’ve been giving me some pretty strong pain killers and they’ve been making me all kind of woozy, but haha! Look at you!”

She says all of this within thirty seconds, talking even faster than he does on a good day.

“Well,” he answers, just as awkwardly as before. “You didn’t make me up, I’m really real.”

She stares at him with wide eyes. “They said you used a windshield wiper to stop me from bleeding out.”

“Technically, I used my tie. The wiper helped make it tight.”

“Windlass!” She almost shouts, trying to sit up again, before falling back heavily with a pained groan. “I’ve had that word stuck in my head aaaaall day, couldn’t remember why! Even made a song about it, wanna hear?”

As she starts half-singing, half-humming a song that does use the word ‘windlass’ quite extensively, the Doctor comes around her bed, propping his glasses on to look at the infusion pump, checking how much pain medication they have her on; her bubbly demeanour makes sense when he reads the numbers.

“Who the hell are you?”

He turns around to face a short, dark haired woman.

“I – ” he tries, but Hannah cuts him off before he can introduce himself.

“That’s him, Mum! He’s the doctor who saved me the other night!”

The woman stares at him, and he ruffles at his hair again. “Well, I’m not technically a – ”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence this time either, finding himself _squeezed_ into a tight hug. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long, the whole thing ending before he can start wondering whether or not he’s supposed to reciprocate.

When Hannah’s mum lets him go, she quickly wipes at her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t…usually hugs strangers, but I…”

“It’s alright, I understand.”

She’s hugging herself, now, barely able to meet his eyes. “It’s just me and my Hannah, you see. You always hear about things like this happening every day, but you never think it will happen to your kid. I don’t know what I would have done if…”

The Doctor quickly comes to learn more than he probably ought to know about Hannah and her mum – Veronica, but the woman seems so genuinely relieved and delighted to be meeting the man who saved her daughter’s life that she loses all inhibition and completely opens up to him.

While most versions of him would have already found a way to get out of this situation, having done what he came here to do – check on Hannah, the Doctor finds himself genuinely interested and even touched by Veronica’s life story. He can’t help thinking about Donna, who he’d watched doing this time and time again, sit down and take a complete stranger’s hand in hers, encouraging them to spill it all out while she nodded and smiled sympathetically.

He loses track of time, eventually finding himself with a marker in his hand, asked to sign Hannah’s cast, while she tells him all about the drama club she’s part of at school. Not knowing what else to do, he draws the outline of his TARDIS…then starts adding some details to it.

He’s more or less forced to go a few minutes later when a nurse pops in and reminds them that Hannah needs rest. He’s barely started standing back up that Hannah raises her uninjured arm, holding out her hand.

He takes it, giving her fingers a squeeze.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she tells him, and although he knows she meant it as a title more than as a name, it feels just the same.

It feels…right.

With his heart beating faster than it should be, he goes for the elevator. He doesn’t leave the building right away, making a _slight_ detour by the A&E, first. He’s not too sure what day of the week it is – which says a lot about the state of his time sense these days, but he gets the feeling that the day of the week doesn’t matter.

The emergency room is full of people, most of them sporting injuries that vary from small cuts to severe looking wounds.

There are noises, and smells, and _life_ , all of it creating a contagious kind of energy that soon tingles in the tip of his fingers, before it begins to crawl under his skin, the longer he stands there observing the room and its controlled chaos, until it’s reached his bones, something in him itching to get involved and help.

And help, the Doctor eventually decides, is exactly what he’s going to do.

…

Rose spots him before he spots her.

He’s standing in the middle of the street with his hands in his pockets, letting the crowd pass him in a continuous flow, observing the passers-by with a near-stillness that is quite unusual for him. The closer she gets to him, the more she senses how… _unstill_ he actually is. It’s not nervousness, or anxiety, but there’s most definitely something boiling in him.

He notices her, eventually, meeting her gaze in between moving bodies. The moment he does, he begins walking to her, even as she carries on walking to him, and before long, she’s being scooped up from the ground, his arms tight around her, and she responds in kind. Their embrace probably lasts longer than what’s generally acceptable, in terms of public displays of affection, but as always, none of them cares much.

When he lets her go, he doesn’t _really_ let her go, just enough for her feet to touch the ground again and for their eyes to meet.

“Hello,” he tells her, his voice subdued, but his smile is genuine.

She grins back at him, pushing herself up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Hello,” she whispers, soon falling back upon her heels. “Did it go ok?”

“Oh yes,” he says. “Had a lovely chat with Hannah and her mum. Well, listened to Hannah and her mum talk for forty-five minutes, really. Hannah was high on painkillers, her mother was just high on gratitude. But it really was. Lovely, I mean. I’ve made some decisions, too. And a few important ones at that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. We’re talking jobs. And official names.”

Although Rose keeps on smiling, she does it without a hint of teasing, now, pushing herself slightly off his chest to get a better look at him. “And you’re…ready to share them with me? ‘cause there’s no rush, we can go eat first.”

“I’m ready,” he says at once, a bit too fast. “I’m just…You might feel the urge to laugh at some of the things I’m about to say, and I’m trying to prepare my ego for such outcome.”

She frowns up at him. “When do I ever laugh at you?”

“Just yesterday evening, when I made us dinner.”

“Now that’s different,” she defends herself. “You wanted to put cheese in the _toaster_. Even you agreed that was a bad idea.”

“Extenuating circumstances,” he protests, his voice a tad high, in both pitch and volume. “You know I get a bit…loopy when we spend the entire day naked with very little sustenance!”

A few people actually glance their way at this _loud_ statement, causing Rose to scowl at him.

“Twenty-first century humans really need to loosen up a bit,” he notes.

“And you really need to stop deflecting and get to your point,” she counters.

He purses his lips. “Touché.” When she remains quiet, still waiting for him to tell her what he meant to tell her, he finally gives in: “Alright, then. I want to be a doctor.”

She stares up at him.

“You’re not laughing,” he frowns.

“Should I be?” She matches his frown with her own. “I mean, I guess there’s some kind of irony to it, but it’s not…funny.”

He remains puzzled. “You don’t seem surprised either.”

She brings a hand up to his stubbly cheek. “You’re brilliant, and resourceful, and ridiculously efficient in a crisis. Am I surprised that the extra dose of human compassion you got from Donna makes you want to save lives on a daily basis? Not really, no.”

When he carries on looking baffled by her lack of laughter or shocked faces, she brings her second hand to his face in emphasis. “That’s what this is all about, too, you know,” she tells him softly. “You, me, doing this ‘one life’ thing together. It’s about being supportive of one another. If you’d told me you wanted to spend the rest of your life grooming cats for a living, I would still be standing here, telling you to go for it. But I do feel like your skills will be put to better use in an emergency setting.”

He stares at her for a few, quiet seconds, his eyes brighter than usual…until his face scrunches up into a scowl. “Grooming _cats_ , really?”

She shrugs a shoulder, letting go of his face, patting his chest lightly. “I was thinking maybe we could get one, actually.”

She moves then, hooking an arm through his, and he follows her lead without hesitation, soon joining the crowd of walking people.

“I’m fairly certain this body’s allergic,” he announces. “Donna and I once helped a family that had one of those big, hairy cat with a flat face, and she leaked mucus for three days straight, afterwards. Made me space-vacuum the entire TARDIS, too.”

“And ’m fairly certain you’re just making this up,” she counters.

“Now _dogs_ ,” he says as if she hasn’t spoken. “Dogs, I like. They’re friendly, and enthusiastic, and overall a lot less dodgy than cats.”

“They’re also needy and messy, and they smell.”

“They do not!”

They spend the next couple of minutes arguing about cats and dogs, until he launches himself into a rant about how there are planets in the universe where owning a cat is actually _illegal_ , and being found out hiding one is punishable by death. He’s started going into details about how exactly those people are executed, when Rose tugs at his arm, cutting him short.

“What about names?”

“Names?” He protests. “We haven’t even agreed on which type of pets we should get yet, picking out a name seems a tad premature.”

She bumps his shoulder with hers, slowing them down. “I mean yours, Doctor. You said you’d made some decisions about that, too.”

“Oh,” he says, immediately more subdued, and they gradually come to a stop.

She gives his upper arm a squeeze. “Hey, if you don’t want to discuss it now, that’s fine too. We can go back to bickering while we eat. I’m starving.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says, although his free hand briefly goes up to the back of his head for a quick ruffle. “I’ve just…” He clears his throat. “I _have_ been thinking.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, she leans a bit more heavily against his side, her chin resting upon his shoulder, looking up at him. “And?”

“And I’ve realised that…my human first name doesn’t matter,” he says. “Well, I suppose it does matter on official papers and things of the sort, but it doesn’t matter where it…matters. I could be a John, or a Henry, or a David, it makes absolutely no difference to me, and I don’t think I’m wrong in assuming it doesn’t to you, either, because we’re never going to use it, anyway.”

She shakes her head a little against him to confirm that she feels the same way; he carries on staring at a point ahead of them, squinting his eyes as he resumes talking.

“Now the surname…” He swallows hard. “I could go for the good old, anonymous Smith. Or I could decide to honour Donna, and be called Noble. But…that’s not what she’d want me to do. She would be talking my ears off, actually, ranting about _family_. She would tell me all about how blood relatives are important, but she’d also remind me that family doesn’t have to be your blood relatives at all, nor do they have to be from your own species. Family is kinship. They are the people who take you in, support you, and love you, even on your worst days.”

He’s talking more enthusiastically now, although he still has to look at her.

“I’m…the Doctor,” he states. “I’m the Doctor in one of my many incarnations. But this is the last one for me. This is it. And I don’t want it to be anonymous, or an homage. I want it to be…family.” He looks down at her and meets her eyes. “I want it to be Tyler. Because I’m part of your kinship, now.”

Rose doesn’t say anything – can’t, really.

She looks up at him, distractedly brushing her chin against his shoulder, forcing herself to breathe in slowly, and to exhale even more slowly, her eyes prickling painfully. She _knows_ he knows, how close she is to turning into a blubbering mess again, overwhelmed by the depth of her affection for him.

She does have years of experience when it comes to calming herself down, though, managing to get her emotions under control remarkably fast, all things considered.

One realisation in particular helps her focus her mind, causing her to frown up at him.

“Did you…” she clears her throat, her voice too thick. “Did you just…propose to me?”

He blinks, his brow creasing in turn. “Well,” he eventually says with a sharp tilt of his head. “Technically, if I’m to take your last name, it would be more traditional for you to propose to me.”

“Mm…” she muses, finally pushing herself off his arm to stand up better, peering at him as if gauging the veracity of his statement. “I guess you’re not wrong.”

They stare at each other.

“Wanna go get some chips?” Rose proposes while between them, his hand seeks hers.

“I do,” the Doctor answers, slowly entwining their fingers together.

She ends up paying for the chips.

(He’s that sort of a date)

.

FIN

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve enjoyed this series so far, don’t hesitate to subscribe to it, I’ll definitely be exploring more aspects of their life together, now that I’ve wrapped up this particular identity crisis. Also, I realise most people go for proper, romantic proposals, but I’m afraid this is as romantic as these two are going to get for me. I have no say in the matter at all, they own me.
> 
> I’m a weepy, emotional writer right now. Feedback is not mandatory, but it’s greatly appreciated ♥
> 
> Until next time, my lovelies.


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